Night of the Hunter
by gaelicspirit
Summary: Bridges episode 5.02, Good God, Ya'll to episode 5.04, The End. Hunting isn't something Dean can simply quit. Even if his family walks away; he's survived worse than loneliness. He's survived Hell. But when an ancient and dangerous breed of vampires and a mysterious hunter cross his path, Dean learns that Hell was just the beginning.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Night of the Hunter  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Author**: gaelicspirit  
**Characters:** Dean, OC, with appearances by Sam, Bobby, and Castiel  
**Disclaimer:** They're not mine. More's the pity. Title of the story comes from a 30 Seconds To Mars song of the same name.

**Summary**: Bridges episode 5.03 _Good God, Ya'll_ to episode 5.05 _The End_. Hunting isn't something Dean can simply _quit_. Even if his family walks away; he's survived worse than loneliness. He's survived Hell. But when an ancient and dangerous breed of vampires and a mysterious hunter cross his path, Dean learns that Hell was just the beginning.

**Warning: **This story is definitely PG-13 and might be considered borderline R in some parts for language, violence, and one mature scene in the first chapter. However, I'm going to leave it at a "T" rating as I've seen similar in other T-rated stories and the "M" rating limits viewers. I trust you know your tolerance level.

**Author's Note: **My hope is that you'll be able to enjoy this story on the merits of the story alone, but since the whole reason you're here is because we share a love for those Winchester boys, I feel I must own up to Sam playing a very small role in this story. He is important to Dean's state of mind in this setting, but this story centers on Dean. Because of where I've chosen to situate the story, Sam does return at the end.

Also, I've taken a few artistic liberties with the timeline. In canon, it appears there's roughly one week between Sam's walking away from Dean at the picnic table and Dean and Castiel's Excellent Adventure to trap Raphael. I'm stretching that out a bit to make the events of this story work. If done right, you won't care. But there are those who notice such things, so I wanted you to know it was purposeful.

This story is for my dear friend **Janet** who has worked tirelessly to save my sanity. _Bead buíoch thar lá mo bháis_ _! _(I shall be forever in your debt.)

* * *

_One night of the hunter; one day I will get revenge. One night to remember; one day it'll all just end…._

"Night of the Hunter" by 30 Seconds to Mars

**PROLOGUE**

**Somewhere beneath Greeley, Pennsylvania**

_Keep breathing_.

It was an order, barked in Dean's head with conviction, shouted in his own voice, spoken from his soul, forcing him to pull in a thin, shallow breath. He gagged slightly on the stench of death and blood, thick in the air around him, helplessly shuddering in revulsion. Gooseflesh raised along his bare skin, more out of horror than cold. Dean clenched his jaw, his next breath skipping across his teeth on its way in.

He could not – would not – let them win. Not now. Not like _this_.

His shoulders burned, the muscles there quaking with effort, stretched beyond their limit. He was so tired, his body thrumming with exhaustion. He yearned to give in, just one moment of relief, but the second he did, the ropes binding his wrists to the hooks above his head slacked and the rope around his neck tightened, choking him and reducing his air intake to a thin slipstream.

The skin of his throat was raw – both inside and out. His wrists were raw and ached from taking the weight of his body. His calf muscles shook from the effort of pushing himself upright. His head pounded – a relentless spike of pain behind his left eye, ratcheting up as he strained to see something.

_Anything_.

Because none of the physical pain matched the panic-inducing fear spawned by the darkness wrapping around him.

Dean could see nothing, the black surrounding him as complete as if he'd literally been swallowed by the Earth. He'd seen pitch like this only one other time in his life: right before he'd forced himself to claw his way up through the wood and dirt and pulled free of his own grave.

But he could _hear_ them moving; the sound of claws skittering along the crumbling rock wall, the hiss of what he assumed was language as they encountered one another. He _felt_ them moving; the slight shift of air as one passed by him on its way to another victim.

They were biding their time.

Dean was fresher, could last longer. He'd caught a glimpse of his prison before the creatures had yanked him by his rope tether, ripped his shirt from his body and strung him up inside the darkness. He'd seen a hellish vista of half a dozen bodies hanging from the ceiling in an earth-bound cold storage. Men, women, young, old – some obviously dead, others barely alive. But then his ropes were pulled tight, his arms raised above his head, his body suspended from the ceiling until he was precariously balanced on the balls of his feet.

He was left in the darkness, nothing but memories of another Hell to combat the increasing fear of his fate.

_Keep breathing_.

As cold, dry skin brushed against the taut muscles of his abdomen, he tried to pull away without strangling himself. He tensed, his body trembling, awaiting the sharp sting and burn of the cuts he knew would come his way. He knew because he'd seen the remains of those who hadn't survived.

He knew because of what they were. What they wanted.

The creature moved away and Dean dared to relax, trying to draw in a slow, shallow breath. A helpless, insane laugh threatened to choke him. He was in the hurt locker. No one knew where he was, no one was coming for him. And the hell of it was, he'd done it to himself. He'd _allowed_ this to happen.

He was hidden from Castiel due to the markings along his ribs; he didn't know if the angel would hear him even if he were able to call. And he'd let Sam go, let his brother just walk away – from hunting, from him, from temptation. Because Dean hadn't been able to protect him. Dean hadn't been there and bad things had happened to Sam.

Dean swallowed a rush of bile, burning the tender skin of his abused throat. He'd gotten himself into this; getting himself out was going to be hell.

And he knew Hell.

_Lock it down. Put it away. Don't think about it. Don't think at all._

Carefully twisting his hands against his bindings, searching for a weakness that would give him an advantage, Dean allowed that this would be a perfect time for Sam's Spidey sense to tingle, alerting his brother to the fact that Dean was more than in danger – he was literally hanging on by a thread. It would be a perfect moment for Sam to change his mind, to return, to sweep in and cut him free so that together they could take out these bastards.

For a sudden, brief moment Dean recalled with crystal clarity the moment Sam had appeared in that filthy, abandoned warehouse and cut Dean's arms free from the djinn's bindings, holding his heavy body as feeling returned to his limbs, keeping him up, keeping him _there_.

_I thought I lost you for a second._

_You almost did._

Between one heartbeat and the next, Dean felt an acute stab of longing for his brother's presence; it drew a sob from him, but he bit it off, unwilling to let them hear. Sam wasn't here. And he wasn't coming.

But something else was.

He heard it chatter and hiss in his direction, the stench of death nearly overpowering as it drew close to Dean once more. And suddenly Dean was _grateful_ Sam wasn't there. No way did he want his brother cut into by these things, his blood drained, his body hollowed out.

Dean cried out, his voice hoarse and foreign in his ears, as the skin along his stretched ribs was split with the scalpel-like sharpness of the creature's clawed fingernail. He felt a mouth follow the path of the slice. Cold lips on his burning skin, a wet tongue sliding along the cut. He growled, trying to pull away from the hideous sensation, but the ropes at his wrists tightened the rope around his neck and he choked, forced to hold still.

What followed caused his breath to still, his skin retracting in horror as a groan climbed from his gut: the thing was _drinking_.

He could feel the lips vacuumed to his side, the tug of his flesh into a mouth as it swallowed the blood pulled from him. He wanted to scream, to thrash, to wrap his fingers around the thing's throat and rip its head off with his bare hands. His body shook with the need to fight back, resisting this invasion. He felt something half-way between a groan and a whimper catch at the back of his throat.

_Keep breathing._

He closed his eyes, taking himself away from this moment, away from this crypt. He was in the Impala, driving down an empty road, Sam sitting next to him, bent arm resting on the open window, evening zephyr rolling across them. He was on Bobby's porch, drinking a beer, watching Rumsfeld stalk a squirrel. He was back-to-back with Sam as they fished off of Pastor Jim's pier. He was sitting on the tailgate of his father's truck, filling clips with silver bullets and listening to Bad Company.

Dean grunted with pain, trying to keep quiet and failing as he felt another slice along his other side, another mouth on him, another tug.

_Lock. It. Down. Do not think._

He'd survived worse than this; he'd survived Hell. This time he knew they couldn't get into his head. They couldn't use his balance against him. They couldn't poison the only light he'd ever had in his life: his family.

And he knew they wouldn't kill him – not yet. They could feed on him for weeks, if he survived that long. He could still get away, get free. Kill them all. If they were going to take him out, they damn well would be going with him. He drew strength from knowing they couldn't get to him – not really.

Not like the others had.

Dean felt the mouths leave his body, heard the clicks and scratches as they moved on to another victim. And for one brief moment his heart panged at the thought that Sam would never know what had happened to him. Dean would simply be gone. And Sam would go on.

Fatigue swept over him, a wave so dizzyingly powerful he nearly succumbed. He felt his knees give, the muscles in his legs seeking relief. And then the rope at his neck pulled taut, snapping his head up and back. He began choking, unable to breathe. He forced his eyes open, no matter that the dark around him matched the dark behind his lids. It was the _act_ that mattered, the effort of awareness that would save his life. He straightened his trembling legs, swallowing roughly.

_Told you these guys were bad news, man._

Dean shot his head to the right in shock. Sam's voice had been so real, so _there_….

He regretted the motion immediately as the coarse rope rasped along his weeping skin. Of course it wasn't Sam. His brother was gone. In Idaho. Or Florida. Could be in Canada for all Dean knew. He wasn't _here_. He wasn't here and they couldn't get him.

_You always gotta be the hero, dontcha?_

"Shut up," Dean whispered, willing the voice away. His words elicited a familiar, human-like cry down to his left. Another victim, another body.

He felt the creatures stirring closer to him once more; he tensed up as he tried to figure out how to stop them from cutting him again. He wanted to grab the rope – the rope they'd used to haul him in here – and leverage himself up, get his legs around a throat, rip it out, kill them…kill them _all_…. His hands were numb, and he knew the minute he messed with the ropes binding his arms he'd end up strangling himself.

_Keep breathing, Dean_.

"'m trying."

_Help is coming._

Dean blinked wide into the darkness, a shadow somehow, impossibly moving before his eyes. A shadow that looked an awful lot like Sam.

"No…," he moaned. It _couldn't_ be Sam.

Sam had left. He quit hunting. He was far, far away from here.

But Dean could _see_ him.

_Hang on, Dean. Don't you let them beat you._

"Get outta here," Dean pleaded, his voice rough against the heavy, still air.

And then he felt them again – this time along his back. A slice, a mouth, the pull of blood causing his belly to sink and his heart to shake. Two, then three. And Dean released a weak scream from the pain of it, from the helplessness.

"Get outta here!" Dean yelled, louder, stronger this time, willing the image of Sam away, needing it to not be real.

He _needed_ Sam safe. Needed to know that no matter what, Sam was free of this. He was living a normal life. He wasn't a hunter anymore.

And he _wasn't_ in this pit.

"Please…," Dean whispered.

The mouths left his burning skin and he froze, listening as the creatures scraped and clawed their way to someone else. He waited for what came next. Remembering the bite marks on the other victims.

_Keep breathing_.

And then the scraping sound stopped.

And the darkness exploded.

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**

**One week earlier, outside Riverpass, Colorado**

It was a rest stop. Nothing special.

They'd been to hundreds of rest stops just like this one all across the country. They'd used the seclusion to steal a few hours sleep, used the facilities for make-shift showers, taken shelter from storms, planned hunts, recovered from wounds. For the nomadic life of a hunter, a rest stop on the interstate was an oasis of calm in a desert of chaos.

But this one was different.

Because after arriving here with Sam – regrouping post-hunt as they'd done so many times – Dean was leaving alone. Sam had walked away hours ago. Shouldered his backpack, given Dean one last glance, and hitched a ride to somewhere else.

Somewhere not here. Somewhere not with Dean.

Dean sat for hours. Listening.

The cool air chilled his hands, his cheeks, the tip of his nose. His eyes burned from staring at the top of the rough-hewed picnic table. His backside and legs were stiff from sitting motionless. There was a hiss in his ears, like the sound of the ocean from inside a shell or the after effects of a rock concert, from hours of listening for _something_ – something real, something right, something familiar – and hearing nothing but the wind and his own heartbeat.

He waited.

He wasn't sure what he was waiting for—a phone call? Sam to come back and tell him he'd changed his mind? Absolution?

He simply…sat there.

_Thing is, the problem's not the demon blood, not really. I mean…what I did, I can't blame the blood or Ruby or...anything. The problem's me. How far I'll go. There's something in me that...scares the hell out of me, Dean. _

It had been _Sam's_ idea. _Sam's_ choice.

But Dean hadn't fought it. Hadn't resisted in the slightest. He'd actually known before Sam did that his brother was done. Was going to walk away—leave the job, the life, Dean. And part of him wanted Sam to go. Wanted an end to the reminder of how badly he'd screwed up his one job.

Sitting silent and still on the hard picnic bench at the cold, Colorado rest stop, Dean realized that he'd known the moment he'd seen Sam staring at the demon blood coating their knife. He hadn't wanted to accept it then; he accepted it now.

Sam had sat across from him, his presence heavy, weighted with purpose and decision, and told Dean he was leaving and Dean had simply…looked at him. He'd ignored the instinct screaming at him that to keep Sam safe was to keep Sam close. He'd told his brother the naked truth he so often buried or shifted so as not to push Sam away…always needing him in his eye line. Always needing to know where Sam was. Until now.

_The truth is, I spend more time worrying about you than about doing the job right. And I just, I can't afford that, you know? Not now. _

The job.

When had it gotten so big? How had they come to a point where _the job_ was more important than worrying about Sam? Angels, devils, Heaven, Hell…. The Apocalypse. It was more than Dean knew how to handle—more than he _wanted_ to handle. But the universe wasn't giving him a choice.

And damn if he could figure out how to help Sam now.

His brother was an adult with adult problems. Dean couldn't protect Sam from himself. And the longer Sam was around all of this…this _temptation_ of hunting and demon blood…the harder it was going to be for him to stop. To _really_ stop.

Nothing he did meant anything if Sam was lost to an addiction perpetrated by a moment neither of them could have controlled nor changed.

It wasn't Sam's fault he was predisposed to this addiction; it _was_ Sam's fault if he didn't fight it. And it was _Dean's_ fault if he didn't help him. Keeping Sam close was no longer protecting him. It was killing both of them. The terror of not being enough, of not keeping Sam safe even when his brother was _right there,_ was paralyzing Dean.

Separation had to be better then what they'd been trying to overcome…. Sam knew how to take care of himself, had done so plenty of times in the past year while running off with Ruby.

This was better. This was safer. _This_ was right.

_So why do I feel like shit?_

The roar of a diesel engine startled Dean and he pulled in a quick breath, blinking and looking around for the first time since Sam had walked away. The high, sharp sunlight had turned the world to tin, tilting his perception of color until it was faded and muted as he scanned the rest area. It was deserted now, except for a pickup truck coming to a stop in one of the empty parking slots that ran along the edge of the grass bank of the rest stop. He watched as two dogs and a passenger unloaded, all stretching travel-stiff legs.

Dean dragged his cold hand down his face, surprised to feel wetness at the corners of his eyes. From the bite of the wind, he reasoned. He rotated, swinging a leg over the bench, the pins-and-needles sensation of blood flowing once more to his extremities causing him to hiss in discomfort. He let his eyes wander the nearly empty lot, taking in the backdrop of snow-capped mountains, the pines and aspens swaying with the lazy wind, until they rested on the Impala.

He'd offered her to Sam. Asked his brother to take their only home with him.

His legs were a bit wobbly as he stood and made his way across the bare expanse of grass, listening as the dogs barked and their owner uttered a command. The mountains had a sound-canceling effect that made everything around him quieter and all of that non-sound beat relentlessly against his ears.

He was unconsciously straining for the sound of his brother's return. A change of mind, an admission of need. But he got all the way to the Impala with nothing stopping him, no one appearing.

She was cold. He pressed his body flush against her side, folding his arms on her roof and resting his chin on his fingers. The world around him was sun-faded and cold. He exhaled slowly through barely-parted lips; he was done waiting. Pushing away from the Impala, he reached for her door handle.

The hinges creaked with familiarity and he slid behind the wheel, breathing in the scents of home, rolling his back against the seat, letting her hold him - the only embrace he wouldn't push away. As he closed out the slam of silence and turned the ignition, letting the rumble of the engine build and roll through him, he breathed a sigh of gratitude.

Once, he'd torn her apart as an outlet for his pain. Once, she'd shielded him when no one else would. Once, she'd been home, a level playing field, a safety zone, Winchester Holy Ground.

Now, she was all he had left.

www

Dean didn't realize his course had been aimless until he passed a sign telling him he was entering Kansas.

"Where the hell am I going?" he muttered, looking around at the flat, wide, brown expanse of nothing.

He flipped open his cell phone, frowning at the lack of reception bars, then checked his gas gauge. He had a quarter of a tank. Salina was 80 miles away. He could make it that far. Maybe call Bobby and check in on the old man. See if he'd gotten wind of any jobs.

"Evil doesn't take a holiday," he groused, leaning over to Sam's—_the passenger_—side and grabbing blindly for a cassette tape, "just because the Apocalypse is stocking up on party favors."

He turned up the volume as Led Zeppelin's _Babe I'm Gonna Leave You_ broke through the quiet interior of the car. Sam had gotten him the Zeppelin box set for the first birthday he celebrated after…well, coming back. It had seemed odd to celebrate a birthday after he'd been dead for forty years, but for Sam, it hadn't been nearly that long. It had only been a four months. And Sam had needed to commemorate the occasion, no matter how awkward Dean had felt about it.

Hell if he was going to turn down a Zeppelin compilation, anyway.

As he pulled into a Phillips 66 at the first exit for Salina, Dean glanced again at the opposite side of the car, words poised on his lips to ask what his brother wanted from inside the convenience store. Anger surged up, making him clench his teeth.

The muscle-memory causing him to check on and for Sam was going to get old, fast. He'd been on his own before. He'd hunted alone more times than he could remember. This was just residual coping. The phantom pain from a missing limb. He'd get used to an empty car again. He filled up the tank, then went inside the store, grabbing random bags of junk food and pop, and microwaving a burrito.

_Because I can, dammit_.

It was stifling being around someone twenty-four-seven. Having them always watching. Watching what he ate, when he ate, how much he drank, who he picked up at bars, who he didn't…. It was going to be nice to be his own man for awhile.

In fact, he could damn well get used to this.

"You got any beer, man?" Dean asked the dull-eyed kid behind the counter.

"Over next to the antifreeze," the kid mumbled. "All we got is Bud, though."

Dean lifted a shoulder, turning to grab a twelve pack of cans. "Works for me."

He actually thought Budweiser tasted like piss, but none of that mattered now. He didn't have to worry about Sam's sidelong glance and half-raised eyebrow. Didn't have to counter his choices with arguments that included phrases such as _long, hard day_ and _just wasted two spirits_ or _mind your own freakin' business._

Because Sam wasn't here.

Wandering back to the car, Dean lifted the trunk and dropped the bags of food inside, keeping his burrito and a plastic bottle of Dr. Pepper in one hand. Just before he shut the trunk, however, he noticed the spare bag of weapons lying on top of his duffel. It was half-zipped; Sam had been in a hurry to get his things together. Ripped the bandage off quickly.

Frowning, he pushed the zipper all the way open.

Dean knew their weapons cache. Knew it like he knew the parts of the Impala's engine, intimately—every gun, every knife, every piece of ammo, silver, iron, down to how much salt they had on board.

Sam had taken the Glock and one extra ammo clip. That was all.

Dean swallowed. "Dammit, Sammy," he muttered.

How was _that_ going to protect him? He knew his brother was resourceful, knew he could get his hands on silver if he needed it, and that salt could be purchased at any corner market. But what if he was caught off-guard? What if he left his weapon behind? Sam wasn't used to being alone without someone to cover his back – at least not the way Dean did.

Dean closed the trunk, his eyes darting around the cars at the station, the highway beyond. He'd noted the license plate of the truck Sam had hitched a ride on. He could just call Bobby, track it, find out which way they were headed. He could follow and just make sure Sam had enough supplies. Make sure he was covered for weapons. No harm in that; he wasn't getting Sam to come back, he was just being a conscientious brother.

He'd pulled out his phone and dialed Bobby's number before he'd fully rationalized the intelligence of such a plan.

"_Yeah."_

"Bobby," he started, dismayed to hear his voice crack.

"_Dean? You okay?"_

"Um…yeah." He cleared his throat, climbing behind the wheel and setting his food down on the seat next to him. "Listen, uh…Sam's…."

He couldn't find a word. It was as if half his vocabulary had suddenly vanished.

"_Sam's what?"_ Bobby pressed. _"Dean? You boys okay? What happened in Riverpass? Rufus' message didn't make any sense."_

"We're okay." Dean balanced his pop between his legs, then pulled out of the gas station and back onto the road, needing action, motion. As long as he was moving, he'd be okay. "Riverpass was a fuckin' mess. War was there."

"_Wa-ar."_ Bobby stretched the word out, said it as if it were foreign to him. _"War…as in…?"_

"As in the Horseman."

"_Horseman?"_

Dean sighed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. It was hard to remember how unbelievable his reality was when he spent every breath just trying to survive it.

"As in one of the Four Horseman of the Apocalypse. Dude drove up in a red Mustang, made the people think they were seeing demons, and, well…you can guess how that went over."

"_Holy hell."_

"Pretty much."

"_Ellen and Jo okay?"_

"Yeah, yeah, they're fine. Everyone's fine." Dean sighed, bracing the steering wheel with his knee so that he could rub at his tired eyes. "We're all fucking fantastic," he muttered soft enough he didn't think Bobby could hear.

"_What is it, kid?"_ Bobby asked his voice gentle.

Dean recognized the tone Bobby used when talking to battle-worn hunters and wounded civilians. He swallowed hard, pushing the lump of emotion that had welled at the base of his throat down so that it sat like a rock above his heart, pressing against his sternum painfully.

"Sam…left."

"_Left?"_ This word seemed to have just as little meaning to Bobby as 'war' had.

"He's not over it, man." He suddenly felt language betraying him again, evaporating before he could grab it tight enough to apply meaning. "The demon blood. He…. Being with…. Hunting, it's…."

"_Okay, take a breath before you choke to death,"_ Bobby ordered. _"He just…took off?"_

"Packed a bag, grabbed a ride, gone."

The last was fractured and soft, as if the molecules of sound required to create the shape of the words were disappearing even as Dean pushed them from his lips. And with that reveal, Dean knew he couldn't go after Sam. _Wouldn't_ go after him.

"_You know where he is?"_

"No."

Dean made sure that word was solid. Had a form, meaning. Bobby was quiet for a moment and Dean focused on the road, the vibration of the car, the feel of the steering wheel.

Tangible things.

"_Maybe it's for the best."_

Dean blinked; he hadn't expected Bobby to agree with him. He nodded, not trusting his voice.

"_You got a mess of trouble on your hands, son. Hard to keep all your irons in the fire when someone keeps yanking them out."_

"Yeah," Dean rasped. They were both quiet a moment. "I didn't lose him, Bobby."

He didn't know what he meant, exactly, except that he needed Bobby to know that Sam chose to leave. He may not have stopped him, but Sam _chose_ to leave him. There was something significant in that. Something the failing words weren't finding.

"_I know you didn't, kid."_

Dean swallowed, needing more.

"_You're his brother, Dean. Not his guardian."_

Dean nodded again, feeling the rock above his heart stab outward hard enough to make him gasp.

"_What is it?"_ Bobby asked, his voice betraying that he was listening for anything.

Dean pressed his lips close. There was a reason he kept stuff inside where no one else could see it. When he let even a little of it out, the mass oozed, slipping through the cracks of his grasp like mercury, following paths he couldn't anticipate.

"_He's gonna be okay, Dean."_ Bobby filled in the quiet. _"He's damn good hunter, knows how to take care of himself, knows how to defend himself. He knows who his family is. He needs a break is all. I think you both do."_

At that, Dean released a breath, able to find some balance inside of Bobby's words. "I don't think my contract includes paid leave, Bobby."

"_Yeah, don't look like it,"_ Bobby muttered. _"Let him go, Dean,"_ he advised quietly. _"He's always had to be the one to walk away. Needs to be able to do this. He'll come back."_

"Yeah, maybe," Dean whispered, barely audible.

Bobby let it go; Dean heard something that sounded like paper crinkling in the background.

"_Where're you headed?"_

"Hell if I know," Dean grumbled. "Just…east."

"_Got some activity in Pennsylvania could use your attention."_

Dean's eyebrows met his hairline. "Pennsylvania? That's like…five states from here."

"_You want a job or you want a vacation, Nancy? Looks like vamps."_

Dean balanced the wheel with his knee again to rub his eyes. He was going to have to sleep soon if he wanted to make Pennsylvania in one piece.

"Anyone else in the area?"

"_Rufus gave me—"_

"Wait, _Rufus_? How'd he hear about this already?"

"_The man doesn't sleep. It ain't natural."_

"I'll say," Dean yawned.

"_You want the intel?"_

"Lay it on me."

"_Three bodies, last week, exanguinated. Here's the kicker—the bodies were people who went missing months ago."_

"Nasty."

"_No, that's just it."_ Dean could practically hear Bobby shaking his head. _"They're recent kills."_

"Runaways?"

"_You got me—has vamp stamp on it like a lower back tattoo."_

"Who'd Rufus say was there?"

"_He didn't, actually. Just said someone's looking into it."_

"Yeah, well, they're about to have company."

He needed a mission. A focus. Somewhere to go that wasn't waiting for the next Horseman to drop or for Zachariah to swing by and tell him more fun facts about being Michael's sword. Something that wasn't wondering where Sam was or what he was doing.

He was a _hunter_, dammit.

"_Head to Greeley and…well, look for the bodies."_

"Thanks, Bobby."

"_Keep me posted, boy."_

"Um…," Dean ran his tongue over his bottom lip. "_Thanks_, Bobby."

"_You said that already."_

"Yeah, but not for this."

Bobby was quiet a minute. Dean heard him pull in a breath.

"_Dean…,"_ Bobby started. Dean waited a moment, feeling the weight of the next words before they filtered through the phone. _"When you died, Sam's world changed. _Sam_ changed. Getting you back changed everything all over again. And things…things have happened so fast with all this…all this shit you boys are dealing with, I…I just don't think either of you have figured out how to be just…_brothers_ again."_

"Yeah, well…." Dean swallowed. He didn't want to think about that. It didn't matter now, anyway. Sam was gone. He was alone. And it was better this way.

Bobby took a breath and exhaled across the phone receiver. _"Keep me posted. Let me know if I need to, uh…send reinforcements."_

"Right," Dean said, not bothering with goodbye.

He never really said 'goodbye' to Bobby. He liked to leave at least one door open. He closed the phone, turned up the radio, and watched the bruised horizon stretch wide as the sky grew darker around him.

www

The hotel sign had two letters burned out in the middle of its neon-lit name and the room smelled like stale cigarette smoke and old Chinese food, but it had a bed and hot water and Dean was spent.

The events that transpired in Riverpass hadn't really worked themselves out of his system and as he stripped in the bathroom, stepping beneath the scalding water, he saw flashes of black eyes and blood and dead bodies and Ellen and Jo and Rufus…and Sam.

Always Sam.

"Son of a bitch….," he choked, lifting his face to the water and filling his mouth, spitting it out against the wall as he soaped his hair. "Always did know exactly what you needed, didn't you? Always had a hard line to what was best for you."

He heard the bitterness in his voice and ignored it. No, it was more than that. He embraced it. _Allowed_ it. He gave himself this moment, shielded by the rush of the water, the steam rising to cloud the glass, the solitude of the single room waiting for him on the other side of the bathroom door.

Just this one moment, and then it was over. What's done was done.

"Damn you, Sammy…."

The first hit was weak, a tap really, unsure how angry he actually was, the tile cold and hard, unyielding beneath his knuckles. The second was hard enough to reverberate through his arm to his shoulder and start his hand aching. The third hit split his knuckle and the water slicking his skin stung the opening, a small trickle of blood sliding through his fingers and down the wall.

He was thirsty for breath, fists pressed against the cracked tiled wall hard enough his knuckles were white. He hung his head, letting the hot water beat against his stiff neck, sluice down his face, and drip from his chin, his lips, his lashes.

Staring at his feet, watching the water and blood swirl down the drain, he felt the fire of resentment slowly die. He hadn't stopped Sam; this time, Sam may have walked away…but Dean let him go.

"For the best," he panted.

When the water cooled, he shut it off, wrapping a small towel around his hand and stepped from the shower, drying off in the steam-filled bathroom before he walked naked to his duffel, pulling on boxers and a T-shirt, his body begging for sleep. He paused long enough to tape up his bruised knuckles, then yanked back the covers, turned off the light, and fell face-first into the pillow.

The nightmares hunted him; they never had to look far to find the hold they needed.

The moment he closed his eyes, felt himself to slip under, he pulled the Devil down with him and the walls fell. This time, though, when he fought his way free of the hooks and knives, the screams and blood, the darkness and suffocation of Hell, there was no familiar sound of breathing coming from the other bed to anchor him in reality. No reminder that he wasn't _there_, he wasn't _gone_.

There was nothing but more darkness. And silence. And both pressed on him like a weight until he felt as if he were splitting apart, dizzy with the need to breathe.

Dean fumbled for the light with a shaking hand, sweat stinging his eyes, slicking his skin, the twisted sheets adhering to his bare torso like wet paper. His pulse raced, sending splotches of dark to the corners of his eyes as he worked to control his gasps for air. He curled his fingers against his palms, tightening his fists until he could feel his nails dig into the skin, crescent-shaped grooves growing deeper as the sounds of clanking metal and snapping bone lingered along with the sickening smell of sulfur and death.

Sam had taught him a trick when the nightmares were bad enough they woke them both: anchor himself to something that hadn't been _there_. Something that _couldn't have_ been there. Dean could almost hear his brother's low voice, easing him down from the fight-or-flight ledge, a low hum of reassurance that told him, _you're okay, Dean, you're back…you're safe._

He tried to fix his gaze on something—one real thing, one thing that was _his_.

His eyes found his Colt 1911, the pearl handle milky in the muted light of the bedside lamp. He stared at it, at the barrel, the grip, the trigger. He mentally took the weapon apart, naming each piece, picturing it, touching it with his mind. Soon he was able to unclench his hands, the nail impressions in his palms stinging sharply. He drew a slow breath, relieved it was done without feeling as if the exhale would rip his throat out.

As his racing heart slowed, calmed, he blinked, almost surprised to see the gun sitting untouched, whole, next to his bed and not in the individual pieces he'd imagined. His hand now barely trembling, Dean dragged it down his face, feeling the tug of rough whiskers against his callouses. He leaned forward in the bed, elbows on bent knees.

The dream had been intangible—not a memory of specifics, but a memory of sensations. Those were worse, he thought, because he couldn't remind himself that it wasn't real anymore. He couldn't ground himself in the safety of _here_ and _now_ and _Sam_. The sensations – the memories of the sounds, the pain, the weight of what he'd lost down there – were all still very real.

He never really got away from them.

They were in the metallic slide of a knife against a whetstone. The slap of a shoe against pavement. The sound of paper ripping. The feel of a hand against his skin. The quick burst of unexpected noise. The smell of blood. And the cold…_God_, it had been so fucking cold….

Each one—all part of his everyday life—took him back to Hell for a moment, sending pin-points of fear and pain through his gut into his brain and it was a daily, conscious effort to force it back, tamp it down, make sure no one saw as he flinched from a _memory_.

But the nightmares…. At night everything was amplified. Every innocuous sound became a threat of danger. Every sigh a warning.

Dean rubbed the heel of his hand against his eye, looking at the clock. He'd been asleep three hours. He could get up, drive on. There was no one else to consider, no one else to worry about. It was just him; he could come and go as he pleased.

He hung his head, rubbing at the tight muscles in his neck. He needed a few more hours if he didn't want to drive his car off the road.

Lying back, he listened to the hum of the highway outside of his door. It was too constant, too loud. His mind changed the noise into words. The words into threats. He turned the digital clock radio to face him, staring at the red numbers rebelliously. Switching the radio button to 'on' he turned the dial until he found some music, then, leaving the light on, rolled to his side, putting his back to both.

No one needed to know he couldn't breathe in the dark. No one was there to care, anyway.

In moments, he felt his eyelids fall closed and drifted, his dreams following the tempo of the music, turning visceral, sexy, heated. Curves of bodies, the brush of lips, the feel of soft, soft skin…. When he woke he was once more covered in sweat and on edge; this time, though what he needed to relieve _this_ brand of tension was more easily achievable than alleviating the stress of Hellish dreams.

He drove through the following day, losing track of what day it actually was, watching the skies for signs of weather that would make his job more difficult, refilling the Impala, and listening to Led Zeppelin. It didn't occur to him until his second stop for gas, right across the border of Pennsylvania, that he hadn't said a single word that day.

When he pulled to a stop at a bar called The Bottleneck, just inside the city limits of Greeley, he surveyed the parking lot by the cold, bluish light of a low quarter moon. Roughly twenty cars, varying conditions. Highway within a few yards of the entrance. He reasoned he would be okay with just his Colt tucked into his waistband and a knife in his boot.

Entering the bar, he breathed in the scent of cigarettes, hops, sweat, and fried food. It was the same in every bar they went to—sometimes balanced with the scent of chalk if a pool table graced the back wall, but mostly, it was the same. And it was comforting; he knew what to expect here. He knew what role to play.

Moving through the white noise the conversations of other people provided, he slid sideways through two groups of people and caught the eye of the pretty brunette behind the bar as she popped the tops off of three bottles of Corona. She lifted her chin in his direction, shoving limes into the open throats of the bottles before setting them on the tray of the waiting cocktail waitress.

"What'll you have?"

"Double of Jack, and two beers."

"What kind? We've got…." She nodded to the four pulls to her left, then tipped her head to the selection behind her.

"Sam Adams," he said. Because why the hell not?

She nodded, and he felt her gaze linger. She was cute, but her eyes held a note of toughness that kept him from turning on the full wattage of his smile. Her dark hair was twisted up in the back, a pencil through the knot, and he could see a tattoo peeking out of the top of her white, V-neck T-shirt, just over her right breast.

She poured the whiskey into a wide-mouthed tumbler directly in front of him giving him the opportunity to decide if it was worth the effort he suspected it would take to get on her good side. As she handed him the tumbler, he saw another tattoo on the inside of her left wrist.

"You want to start a tab?" she asked, lifting almond-shaped eyes to meet his.

"Yeah," he nodded, settling in with his elbows on the bar as one of the groups of people shifted away. "I'm gonna be here awhile."

She tilted her head, watching him and ignoring the eyes of the patrons several groups down from him as they sought her attention. "Rough night?" Her eyes tripped down to his bandaged hand.

Dean offered her what he hoped passed for a grin. "Rough life."

"Been there," she nodded, the beauty mark at the corner of her mouth turning her smile into a Gina Gershon-like smirk. She moved away from him to refill the pint of a man at the far edge of the bar.

Dean was going to have to step up his game if he wanted to get some action tonight. He needed to work through this tension that was nothing but an annoying distraction and get on with things. Had Sam been there, Dean knew there would be the inevitable sarcastic remark, a joke or two about how he chose to regain his focus. As far as Dean was concerned, sex was as good of an endorphin rush as any workout regimen, and its payoff was a damn-sight better than sore muscles.

He turned, putting his back to the bar and the pretty brunette, and looked around the room. Maybe there was an easier way to do this. He'd never been a _quickie in the public bathroom stall_ kind of guy, but right now he was so preoccupied by the latest curve ball life had tossed his way, he might be willing to make an exception.

Groups of people clustered around tables, sitting, standing, laughing, talking. He saw a few past-their-prime frat boys playing darts and shooting not-so-subtle looks at a group of blondes in low-cut tops. A couple of girls who looked too young to be twenty-one were clustered around the jukebox. In the back, some business men sat with loosened ties and suit jackets slung over the backs of chairs as they discussed something that had all of their expressions pulled low and tight.

Other than the brunette bartender, no one stood out, caught his attention, or twisted up the heat in his gut. He'd always been able to spot a likely one-night-stand rather quickly, much to his brother's consternation; this time, there seemed to be a different vibe in the bar. Something subdued and edgy. Exhaling quietly, Dean wondered if it had something to do with the reason he was here in the first place.

He'd started to return his attention to the cute bartender when he felt eyes on him. The hairs on his neck stood and he held completely still. There, from the left…just…_there_. He glanced to the side, trying to find the source of the _being watched_ feeling and spotted a man sitting at the edge of the bar, his back to the wall, a bottle of beer in his hand.

Dean could read people; he'd brag on it when he knew it could work to his advantage, but the truth was, John had honed Dean's natural kinesthetic awareness into a sharpened instrument.

His gut was rarely wrong; the times it had been, he'd been distracted and he'd paid for that distraction. Paid enough that he rarely allowed his guard to slip—especially with no one to watch his back. Some people simply sent off an aura of warning and Dean had to know the right balance of _stay away_ and _stay close_ that would keep him alive.

The man was dressed innocuously enough: flannel shirt and a denim jacket. He was thin, but the kind of thin that often disguised a dangerous layer of muscle, as Dean and Sam had learned the hard way on more than one occasion. There was nothing about his appearance that fed Dean a clue as to why his warning bells went off. He had dark, close-cropped hair, was clean shaven. Blue eyes skimmed the interior of the bar with precision – taking stock, watching. They paused on Dean the moment Dean looked over at him.

He held Dean's eyes like a challenge. Now on guard, knowing enough to focus on his instincts, Dean blinked slowly, shifting his eyes away, choosing to ignore the _try it and see what happens _vibe that was suddenly emanating from the man. Dean wasn't about to stir up new trouble before he'd even figured out the trouble he'd come here for in the first place.

Especially without a six-five back-up plan.

As he looked away, he felt the weight of the man's stare move on, once more scanning the bar, as if looking for something. Or someone. There was something about this guy—military? cop? hunter?—that tickled the edge of Dean's perception, distracting him from the quiet prowl he'd been attempting with his eyes.

Working to relax his spine and exude an air of carelessness, Dean kept the man in his periphery as he worked his way through the beers and the whiskey, calling the bartender back before the last beer was half gone and ordering more of the same. As the night thinned, so did the crowd, and soon Dean was one of four people at the bar, including the man Dean had noticed before. The other two remaining patrons were far more into each other than the bartender, so he used their distraction to his advantage, asking her name—Ali—and finding out more about the local color of Greeley, Pennsylvania.

She was eager to share; he'd noticed she'd had a couple shots with a few patrons and her movements were loose-limbed, her eyes less wary as she told him how long she'd lived in Greeley, what the town was like, how many people – give or take a few hundred – passed through in any given week.

"Pretty small town, then, huh?"

Ali's right brow lifted slightly, "Big enough to've seen some action."

Realizing he'd skirted the edge of an insult, he smiled lazily. "Sounds interesting."

"Mostly up by Saint Elizabeth's," she glanced quickly at him, "it's a school. But yeah…, we've got our stories."

Dean rolled his bottom lip against his teeth. "I'll bet you do."

"So…," Ali said with a slight sigh and a tilt of her hips that signaled the pending end to a long shift, "you ask a lot of questions for not being a cop, Dean."

He lifted his chin and dropped his eyes so he looked at her from lowered lashes. "Who says I'm not a cop?"

Ali smirked. "You drink too much, for one."

"Maybe I'm off-duty," Dean replied, his answering expression matching the twist of her lips.

She shook her head. "Nah. I'd peg you as…a P.I. Or a reporter. You have too much personality to be a cop."

He almost laughed out loud. "Not a reporter," he told her.

"P.I. then," she decided. "Why are you so interested in Greeley?"

Dean glanced at the man leaning against the wall. He hadn't moved, not once. His eyes seemed to take in everything, though. It was unnerving. He didn't glance Dean's way again, but Dean was left with the impression that he was seen just the same.

"Heard about some strange deaths here recently," Dean answered her. "Wondered if there might be a connection to…uh, another case I'm working."

Ali sighed again, this time leaning against the bar, crossing her arms over the edge, bringing her face within inches of his. It was an effort to drag his eyes from her cleavage to her face once she shelved her breasts on the bar top.

"Strange is one word for it," she said. "I went to high school with one of the…um…."

"Victims," Dean supplied.

"Right. Seems weird, though. With the cult and all. Calling them victims."

"Cult?" Dean asked, subtly shifting so that he was slightly closer to her, could smell her perfume over the multiple scents wafting around the bar. He felt her soft exhale on his cheek, smelling slightly of whiskey.

"I read that there were…markings on the bodies. Cuts, bites…. Looks like they were into some weird shit. It's no wonder."

"No wonder…they died, you mean?" Dean asked, eyes on her mouth.

"Yeah," she replied, slightly breathless. He saw her eyes were tracking his. "If you're gonna go and mess with the bull…." She lifted a shoulder as if to say _you know the rest_.

"Ali." The man down the bar was suddenly next to Dean.

Dean pulled up, surprised he'd been caught off-guard. He'd been keeping close tabs on the man, sure he was up to something. The guy wasn't looking at him, though; his eyes were all for Ali. Dean swallowed, shuffling one step back; the energy this guy gave off made him _want_ to move away.

He once more sifted through his endless mental rolodex of evil; maybe it _wasn't_ a military or hunter vibe that had triggered Dean.

"Hey, Noah," Ali smiled. "You cashing out?"

The man – Noah – nodded, reaching into the inside of his jacket. Dean tensed, his hand instinctively moving to the small of his back, his fingers on the grip of his gun. Noah pulled out his wallet, sliding a couple bills across the counter. Dean dropped his hand from the gun, but didn't let the tension out of his shoulders.

"You off soon?" he asked. His voice held an accent; one Dean couldn't place right away.

She nodded, darting a quick look at Dean.

"Be careful walking home," Noah advised.

As he started to turn, Noah met Dean's eyes squarely and Dean immediately dropped his shoulders in a loose fighter's stance, let emotion slip from his eyes, and lifted his chin, holding Noah's gaze. The hairs on the back of his neck refused to lie down as the taller man took him in, nodded, then turned away. Dean watched him walk out of the bar, the door slamming shut in his wake. Dean turned back around to face Ali, unable even then to completely relax.

"He a regular?"

Ali shook her head. "Not until a week ago. Then he's coming in every night, orders the same thing—and a lot of it—then just sits back and…watches everybody."

"Always goes home alone?" Dean asked, glancing back over his shoulder, his brows pulled together as he thought of the timing of Noah's arrival and the bodies Bobby had told him about.

"Yeah, why? You lonely?"

Dean turned back to Ali, allowing his full smile to spread across his face. "Sweetheart, he's got nothing I want."

Ali smiled and he saw the pulse at the base of her throat flutter. "This rough life of yours…it keeping you around here long?"

"Long enough to finish this case." He drew his lower lip in and caught it with his teeth.

"So, what you're saying is…this could be our last night together, that it?" Ali asked, her mouth still not quite making it all the way to a smile.

Dean felt a jolt of liquid heat race through his blood. "That's about right."

"We close in a half hour."

"I'll walk you home," Dean promised, finishing his drink, then watching more openly as she moved down the bar, cleaning up the bottles, tops, and glasses so that when her shift ended, she'd be free.

He'd gotten enough information from her to know what questions to ask the local LEOs in the morning, now he was free to ease that tension that had been building in him since the nightmare left him shaky and sweaty in a quiet motel room.

The night was cold.

Dean buried his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, waiting as Ali locked the door behind the last two patrons, who'd left with arms slung around each other in the embrace of the inebriated – part beer-goggle attraction, part need for balance. Dean watched as they stumbled past the remaining cars in the lot and walked down the hill toward town.

He glanced around once more, the sense of eyes upon him still strong. The moon had moved higher in the inky sky, the brilliant light spreading wide and turning the world into a black and white movie. The parking lot was devoid of people, save himself and Ali. Maybe he was imagining things, skittish without Sam there with him, checking his six, a phone call away if nothing else.

Dean felt electrified, turned on by the night. It was now, in the dark, when he so often went to work, when he was _needed_. He was one of a select few who knew what shadows to look behind when seeking creatures that hid from the light.

He exhaled as Ali draped her purse across her body, and pulled the pencil from the knot of hair, letting it fall in swirling, black waves down her back. He was close enough to her that he could smell her shampoo, feel her body heat as she turned to him and hooked her arm through his.

His muscles coiled, anticipation tight in his belly.

"You live close?" He didn't want to wait long; he needed to focus on the job. Get back to business.

Distraction in any form could get him killed. _Would_ get him killed.

She nodded. "Two blocks. I don't often have company."

Dean arched a brow. "You're kidding, right?"

"What, I look that easy?" Ali's eyes crinkled at the corners, smiling in an experienced way that made him wonder at her age.

"No, it's not that, I just—"

"Listen," Ali interrupted, taking pity on him, and tugging him forward. "The guys who usually want to walk me home…hell, if you unzipped their flies, their brains would fall out."

Dean's lips dipped down as he suppressed a grin.

"You're actually interesting," she continued.

They headed up a slight incline and Ali let her arm drop from his elbow to weave her fingers with his.

"All I did was talk about dead bodies," Dean pointed out with a laugh.

"Well…that's interesting," Ali countered.

The night carried a crisp musk of cold, dirt, and the stale exhaust lingering in the still air from cars long gone. Dean pulled in the scent, trying to note any inconsistency, any warning of danger. As they continued up the hill, he divided his attention between the broken sidewalk, the small cookie-cutter houses, and the cars parallel parked along the side of the road. He watched four steps ahead, anticipating what could step out from an alcove, a shadow, from inside a car.

He'd do that in any situation; in a town with vampires killing people, it was a critical.

And there as something tugging at his memory, an itch in the back of his mind that he couldn't scratch. Something he'd missed, something he'd not paid enough attention to….

"Here's me."

Ali interrupted his thoughts by stopping, forcing him to do likewise or run her over. He took in the chain linked fence surrounding the house, the windows flanking the front doors, and assessed that fire code would dictate a back door as well. Always good to know his exits before entering a strange location.

"Want a beer?" Ali asked as she led the way up the brick walkway to her front door.

"Sure," Dean replied, standing behind her, amused by the courtesy. If he'd read her right, the only thing that had stopped her from suggesting they use the bar top was the fact that it would be so much more enjoyable in her own bed. He glanced to either side of the small porch as he waited her to unlock the door. "You should have a light out here."

Ali pushed her door open. "I did, once. An ex busted out the bulb and I haven't gotten around to getting a ladder to get the broken base out of the socket."

Dean looked up, seeing the broken shards of glass bulb sticking out from the overhead socket. "Bastard," he commented idly.

"Why do you think he's an ex? I even have a bulb…just no ladder. Sucks being short," she laughed, casually tossing her keys onto a side table inside the door.

Dean followed her in and immediately took stock of the interior. A bowl of loose change, mail, and a light bulb sat next to where her keys had landed. The dark was broken by moonlight and exposed a couch, a TV, a hallway, a kitchen. He closed the door behind him, watching as she shrugged off her purse and jacket, dropping them over the back of the couch. She turned toward him, the light from the moon leaking in through one of the front windows and cutting a pale slash across her face, turning her eyes dark and spotlighting her lips.

The heat in his blood that had cooled during the brief night walk spiked hot again and he felt his body respond to the instant, dirty thought he had about her mouth.

"You still want that beer?" She asked, her voice slightly breathless.

Dean darted his tongue out, wetting his dry lips and shook his head slowly. "Not really thirsty."

He kept his eyes on her mouth, not moving, not rushing, letting her pick the moment. He knew how to play this game, had known where he'd end up the moment she'd leaned across the bar to get closer to him. She'd wanted something mindless, easy, free just as much as he did.

"Oh, hell," she whispered a heartbeat before she closed the gap between them, grabbing his face and pulling his mouth down to hers.

She had to stand on her toes to reach his lips, and he gripped her waist, pulling her up and pressing her body against his, letting her set the pace of the kiss, letting her mouth tease up the fire, knowing he'd get what he needed, knowing it was just this moment and more than okay with that.

As they moved further into her darkened house, stumbling over discarded shoes, a basket of magazines, a remote control, and finding their way to the bedroom, Dean realized that Ali kissed with her hands. He shrugged out of his jacket as she pulled at his shirt, dragging him closer, pawing at his side, angling her mouth to get more of him, not letting him drag in a full breath.

She was devouring him and the intensity of it, the complete mindless release, had his knees buckling a little. Which just made Ali press closer and kiss harder, drawing inarticulate groans of need from somewhere inside Dean. The sound made Ali grin and he felt it against his mouth, a sensation of _want _shooting through him, angling right for his groin and setting his body on fire.

Her control made him feel awkward because, yeah, it'd been awhile, but not _that_ long and he knew he was too much in his head and had to cut that shit out now before he turned this into an all-night affair and not the timed release he was seeking. He pulled her closer, making his grip just shy of painful as he turned her, driving her backward instead of the other way around. He'd gotten the general layout of the house, knew where he was heading, and pushed her through the bedroom door, drinking in the unchecked shiver that shook through her limber body as he stroked his tongue along hers.

Ali's bed was unmade, blankets and sheets tangled at the foot, pillows turned sideways from her sleep the night before. She tugged his shirt up and he realized she'd already removed hers, both straining to get skin-to-skin. She backed onto her bed, her legs straddling his thigh, her hands – Jesus _Christ_ how many did she have? – tearing at Dean's button fly, working it open and trying to shove his pants down.

"Wait," Dean gasped, fumbling for his waistband and his Colt. Ali sucked his bottom lip into her mouth making him instinctively press against her as he groaned in response. But he needed – holy _hell_ he needed to let loose and climb inside her and let it all explode and go blank and – to get his gun. "Wait, wait…just a minnit…."

"No," she gasped. "Don't wanna…."

She moved her mouth to his ear and began using her tongue on the lobe and the edge and he was going to come apart right there if he didn't—

"Just…just gimme…."

"Oh, I'm gonna," Ali gasped into his ear and it was all Dean could do to push her down against the bed, using both arms to keep her there.

Her eyes were wide, pupils large and feral with desire. He knew his had to look the same as he shook his head once to keep her momentarily still, reaching back and pulling his gun free, then dropping it to the pile of clothes.

Ali had seen it, but instead of it scaring her as he'd worried it might, it seemed to help her find another gear and before he'd finished kicking his jeans free from his ankles, she was all hands and mouth and he came apart, arching into the heat of her. He felt as if he were being eaten alive by silk teeth, felt himself bury deep, felt her shudder and shake and he lost himself.

For fifteen blissful minutes he closed off the screams and the cold and the smell and feel of blood and pain and he rode out the heat with a stranger, seeking nothing but the unique oblivion found in the connection of two bodies.

Sweaty, sated, and gasping for breath, they fell back to the bed, side-by-side. Dean's body felt liquid, the coil of tension in his belly happily unwound for now. Ali let out a throaty laugh and he grinned in response.

"You want that beer _now_?"

What he _wanted_ to do was sleep. Right here, with her in the room to remind him that he was back, he wasn't _there_, he wasn't _gone_. He wanted to wake and hear her breathing.

He wanted to hide for a few more minutes.

"Sure," he replied, deciding that he was hearing a _that was fun, thanks, bye_ tone in her voice rather than a _you want to stay for breakfast_ tone.

Ali rolled from the bed, pulling the sheet with her, and made her way across the room to her bathroom, trailing the sheet behind her. Dean lay absolutely still for several seconds, then leveraged himself up, his body still humming, and dressed quickly. For one brief moment he considered leaving his number, leaving a note, waiting for her to get out of the bathroom and sharing that beer with her, but he knew that wasn't what this was.

That wasn't who _he_ was, not right now.

He'd needed to find a release, and she'd been a willing valve. That was all. It's what he did, what Sam chided him for, teased him about. To think there could be anything else – _ever_ – meant ignoring the reality that crashed around him every waking moment.

The reality of demons and angels, destiny and loneliness.

On his way out, Dean snagged the light bulb from atop the stack of change and envelopes and paused long enough to reach up, remove the broken bulb, and replace it. Light flooded her porch, turning the night around him darker. Sure, he'd used her.

But he wasn't a complete jerk.

He stepped off her porch and made his way back to the bar where he'd left the Impala.

* * *

**a/n:** I hope you're enjoying so far and intrigued enough to return.

This story will be 10 chapters long, each chapter posted one week apart until completed (I'm nearly done – just working on the final 2 chapters now). Those of you who have read my other stories will see that these chapters are shorter than my normal. I wrote the story as a whole and got some input (thank you, **Terry**) on where to break it up to make it easier for you to read.

There is quite a lot of action, angst, blood, and battle to come. If you do choose to read, I'd very much like to hear what you think.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: **Night of the Hunter  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Author**: gaelicspirit  
**Characters:** Dean, OC, with appearances by Sam, Bobby, and Castiel  
**Disclaimer/Warning:** They're not mine. More's the pity. Title of the story comes from a 30 Seconds To Mars song of the same name. This story is definitely PG-13 and might be considered borderline R in some parts for language, violence, and one mature scene in the first chapter.

**Author's Note: **Thanks for returning! Those of you who said it's been awhile – you're right. *grins* The last couple of months were pretty tough ones in Real Life; writing is my solace and working on this story kept me sane during some rough days. It hasn't turned out to be a 'typical' Supernatural story for me, but I have really loved writing it.

Also, I appreciate those of you who focus on more "Sam and Dean-centric" fics giving this one a chance. One of the things I love about Original Characters (be that in fics or in the show) is that we get to see our heroes through the eyes of another, _and_ get to see our heroes reacting to and behaving around people different from their brother. That's what I've tried to bring to life here. You'll be the judge if I've done it "right."

I truly hope you enjoy what's to come.

* * *

_I tried to be someone else  
But nothing seemed to change  
I know now, this is who I really am inside._

30 Seconds to Mars, _The Kill_

**CHAPTER TWO**

Noah had recognized the kid as a hunter the moment he'd turned his back to the bar, surveying the room. He had a wild scent about him, something only another hunter – one who'd been at it as long as Noah had – would detect. The kid seemed to shimmer just outside of normal light, his energy wary, his eyes never still; even when they turned inward, where old wounds and history ticked beneath the surface of consciousness, his eyes had roamed, not lingering, not wanting the reminder.

He was younger than many of the hunters Noah had encountered in the past. But he had a worn look about him. Something that said he'd been around more than one block in his brief lifetime.

Noah was patient; he kept a close eye on his prey – so close that as the evening thinned, he wondered if the kid would pick up on it. But four pints and about six shots in, he recognized that the kid was focused on using Ali for information and hadn't widened his search. Noah listened as Ali told the younger hunter about the cult theory, watched as he took in the information, filed it away, and moved on.

It was clear where this interrogation was leading as Ali lingered near the hunter's stool, leaned close to him while talking, ignored other patrons as they saluted her with empty pint glasses. Noah would admit to a certain amount of jealousy; he'd been in the bar repetitively for a few weeks now and Ali hadn't once looked at him with the interest that had her eyes glowing as she took in this new guy.

_Those days are long gone_, Noah reminded himself as he cautioned Ali to be careful walking home. He turned to leave, purposely meeting the wary eyes of the hunter he knew would accompany her.

There was a time he could have _been_ this kid. A time when human contact such as the kind the kid was seeking mattered, was craved…_needed_. A time when he cared about having a bed and three squares a day. When he still fought to hold tight to a regular life – a mortgage, bills, sex twice a week – despite the fact that the curtain had been pulled away and he knew what was out there, what was waiting for him in the dark. There was a time when he thought he needed the regular aspects of life to remind him of who he was.

But the world had reshaped him, like water on rock. The old needs no longer fit.

He left the bar, knowing the one he'd been watching would be the last to leave, and climbed the fire escape of the building next to The Bottleneck, crouching there and watching from his perch, the brilliant moon his companion as he surveyed the lot, waiting.

He wanted a cigarette.

His blood hummed just beneath the surface of his skin, aching for that hit of nicotine, the buzz of numbness that took the edge off of his perception. But he resisted. He needed the heightened awareness, even if sometimes the world was too sharp, too real, too _here_. Plus, vamps have a wicked sense of smell. Couldn't sneak up on one if his smoke gave him away.

So he sat. And he watched. And waited.

The night was cold; he shoved his fingers into the pockets of his denim jacket, his jaw aching from hyper vigilance as he kept his eyes pinned to the front door. He knew what time The Bottleneck closed, knew just how long he'd have to wait.

The door opened and two people stumbled out followed by Ali and the young hunter. He thought he'd heard the kid give Ali his name, but it was escaping him. He'd never been good with names. It took him three nights of visiting the bar to remember Ali's without having to listen for someone to call on her.

The couple stumbled away, moving as if they were both three sheets, though he knew it was only true of one. He waited, needing to time his move for when the couple was far enough away from Ali and the hunter to not put them in danger or expose him. He shifted his stance, ready to climb down from the fire escape, when he felt the kid's eyes on him.

Noah froze, for one brief minute certain that he'd been seen. But the moon worked in his favor for once and tossed well-positioned shadows, concealing him. The kid turned his attention back to Ali and Noah tried not to think of the interlude he knew would be commencing the moment they reached Ali's small house.

As the drunken couple moved toward town and Ali and her hunter headed up the hill, Noah slipped from his perch. He paused a moment, eyes following the hunter, noticing how the kid somehow managed to walk next to Ali and put himself between her and the dangers of the night at the same time. It seemed crazy that he'd not picked up on the vampire just down the bar from him. But there it was. He was walking away and Noah was going after it.

He made his way cautiously around the bar, vaulting the low fences that surrounded back yards, ignoring the scents of earth, home, and family that assaulted his acute senses as he worked around to cut off the duo. He quickly found the alley he'd pegged as the trap the vamp had set for its prey. Keeping low, moving quickly, he slipped on a pair of thin leather gloves and pulled the silver-tipped wooden stake from its sheath beneath his denim coat.

He didn't want to have to use it – not this time. He was after something bigger than one vamp: he wanted the nest. He'd gotten close once, a long time ago. But they'd gotten wind of his pursuit and escaped, evaded, relocated. They shifted locations every few years, and hid well enough no regular hunter would simply stumble across them.

After years of searching Noah was no closer to locating the nest, and it was _everything_. It was the grail. And if following this vamp to find it meant sacrificing an innocent….

_Collateral damage_, he justified.

He moved quietly into the alley ahead of the couple. The sour smell of the trash dumpsters drifting down the length of the narrow lane was strong enough he pressed his nose against his shoulder. Hopefully that smell would mask his scent; he figured the vamp was counting on that as well. Once it started feeding, a vampire gave off an odor of death strong enough it would catch the attention of any passer-by.

Noah skirted a water-filled pothole, his boots slipping on some loose gravel until he found an alcove in the passageway and pressed himself flat against the cold brick wall of one of the buildings framing the alley. He held still, barely breathing, and waited.

The couple moved into the alley – he heard the word shortcut – and he closed his eyes, working to slow his heart rate, knowing how easily the vamp would hear it if alerted to another presence. A soft _oomph_ came from several feet down and he opened his eyes, watching as the vampire pressed her catch against the opposite wall of the alley. If anyone passed by the opening, it would merely look like two people ready to get it on as she rubbed against her victim, her mouth moving from his, down his jaw to his neck.

The man groaned, his hand fumbling along her back, making a half-hearted attempt to hold her or push her away, it was unclear. The female vamp looked up, and in the moonlight Noah could see her razor-like teeth bared, her eyes pale, pupils having turned to cat-like slits. The man with her was too drunk to catch on, slumping against the wall and patting her awkwardly.

"'S nice," the man slurred, his eyes closed, head canted back.

The guy was more than drunk, Noah saw. A thin red line leaked from his neck where the vamp had been feeding, the heady, erotic sensation of her bite overpowering any of the pain inflicted and keeping the man momentarily ignorant of what was actually happening to him. Noah felt his belly tighten as she looked around, licking the man's blood from her lips as she did so.

"I know you're there," she snarled, her voice raspy and her face going round – no longer resembling the attractive curves and angles of a modern-day Anglo female – her mouth widening, eyes turning red.

Her race of vampire was ancient, Noah knew, and the taste of the man's blood was drawing her true form forward. He'd seen enough vamps in his time as a hunter that he was rarely fazed by their true appearance, but this race repulsed him. They were primeval. The ancient ones were more animalistic – he'd only seen a few in his years hunting them, but the ones he'd seen repulsed him with their clawed hands, bat-like ears, red eyes and full-lipped mouths filled with deadly teeth.

Even the newly-turned took on the traits of the old ones: the dank scent of rot, the pale, beast-like countenance, the snake-like hiss of their voices – when they bothered to speak at all. Their sense of hearing and smell was acute, making up for the blindness of their narrowed eyes. And they were strong – stronger than most.

"I smell you." She turned her face toward him, the bloodless pallor of her skin shining in the moonlight.

_Dammit_, Noah cursed silently. He'd gotten too close.

He held still, barely breathing, watching from the shadows as she pressed her hand against her victim's throat, pinning the man to the wall in a blurry, confused mess. Noah knew she didn't want to kill the guy – not yet, anyway. She wanted to taste him, own him, take him back to the nest as food for the rest. They'd feed on this guy for months.

"Kinky," the man muttered, coming around enough to realize she'd stopped putting out and that something wasn't right.

Noah watched as he reached for her and she tightened her grip, her nails elongating and digging in to his throat. The man choked, eye going from intoxicated and aroused to desperate and terrified in a second. Noah stepped out from the shadows, cursing the instinct to protect.

"Let him go," he growled.

"Back off, hunter," the vamp hissed.

"Don't really see that happening, do you?" Noah asked, rolling the stake in his palm and widening his stance, squaring off, ready for her attack.

She tilted her head, stiffly, like an animal studying him. The man in her grasp had gained his feet and was attempting to push himself upright, his eyes clearing as he reached up and felt the blood running down the side of his neck. She held him causally, her eyes on Noah – which made him nervous on two fronts. If he had any hope of saving this guy and not end up breaking cover for no reason, he had to act now. But she was clearly ready for him.

Taking a quick breath, he launched forward, the silver-tipped stake gripped low, ready to slam it home to what had once been her heart. She brought her free arm up and backhanded him before he had a chance to touch her, sending him crashing roughly against the opposite wall, driving the air from his lungs and making his head spin. She continued to stare at him, her pale face lined with confusion and curiosity as he coughed, shaking his head slowly to get the world to slow the hell down.

"What the fu-" the man choked, clawing at her grip as Noah rolled shakily to his knees, grabbing for air with thirsty breaths.

Noah looked up just as the man's efforts at resistance began to sound wet. He instinctively raised his hand toward the vamp. "No, don't!"

She tightened her grip, crushing the man's throat and pulling his windpipe out with a soggy rip. For a moment the dead man stayed upright as the vamp turned toward Noah, his windpipe dripping from her fingers, then his face fell blank and his body crumpled in a heap of empty human shell.

"I know what you are," the vampire hissed at him, keeping her eyes on his face as she licked the man's blood from his dangling windpipe like some macabre lollipop.

Noah pushed himself to his feet, using the wall for support. He'd maintained his grip on the stake and held it in front of his body, hoping the silver tip would be enough of a deterrent while he fought to get his bearings.

"I don't want to kill you," he told her.

She grinned, her jagged teeth stained red. "The feeling isn't mutual."

"I just want the nest," he tried. "Tell me where it is, and you can walk away."

At that, she outright laughed. Noah had to admit as he leaned heavily against the wall, hand still shaking from his impact with the brick, that he didn't pose much of a viable threat. But, then again, a vampire – of all creatures – should be well-aware that looks can be deceiving.

"You are no hunter," she purred. "I am going to tear you apart."

"Take your best shot," Noah growled, ready.

She moved impossibly fast and was on him before he'd pulled in his next breath. But he'd not survived this long without having learned a few tricks of his own. Noah juked sideways at the last second, causing the vampire to overshoot and stumble as he spun around, slamming his elbow into the nap of her neck and shoving her face-first into the nearest dumpster. She flipped, turning with a teeth-bared hiss and dove at him, nails first.

Noah took the hit, gritting his teeth against an instinctive cry of pain as her nails dug into his side, using the vamp's momentum to thrust the stake upwards, the silver tip parting her skin right below her sternum and arresting her movement, her claws still embedded in his side. The wooden weapon paralyzed her, freezing her face in a grimace of hate, her teeth bared and dripping another man's blood down his neck.

"Now," Noah panted, holding still as her weight bore down on him, the pain in his side from her nails building until he felt it at the corners of his eyes, "you got two choices…," he took a step forward, turning her, then pressing her against the brick wall opposite the man she'd just killed. "You tell me where your nest is," he shoved the stake in further, causing her to drop her head back, her face going slack, "and I'll pull this fucker out. You don't…and I don't have to tell you what's next."

He was breathing hard, his heart slamming against the base of his throat, his side aflame, his skin retreating from her nails. She rolled her eyes down to meet his, one side of her mouth turning up in what might have been a grin when she'd been human. He twisted the stake, knowing the silver was burning through her, knowing it was turning her blood to fire even as the stake stilled her movements as effectively as a straight jacket.

She closed her eyes and Noah grunted as she sluggishly tugged her hand away, her nails tearing his skin like a paper being ripped from a notebook. Blood trickled down his side and he shook her, once, as he accepted that she wasn't going to give up the location of her nest and if he pulled the stake free, she'd literally tear him apart.

"Have it your way," he breathed, pulling a small machete from a harness at his back, lifting it in an arc, and separating her head from her body in a clean cut, the blood pooling at the blunted end of her neck.

As her head hit the pavement, a hollow knock echoing against the opposing walls, Noah pulled the stake free, letting her body fall to the ground. He bent down and wiped the blood from the tip of the stake onto her jeans. Rising, he quickly resheathed both weapons, forcibly ignoring the pain at his side. He stumbled across to the body of the man he'd been willing to sacrifice, digging through the pockets until he found a wallet.

Bruce London, twenty-five. He was local. The cops would find his body soon enough, Noah knew. He cleaned out the wallet of its cash, tucking the bills into his pocket, knowing they wouldn't do Bruce any good now, then tossed the wallet against the wall, hoping the cops would take it as a mugging gone wrong. He snagged the vamp's head by the hair, grabbed her body by her wrist, and started down the alley, dragging her behind him.

No good would come from local LEOs looking into a beheaded woman; that's all she resembled now, in death. Whoever she'd been before some randy vamp had turned her, she became once more in death. A young, impressionable female, ready to be told she was beautiful, wanted, desired. Too bad someone hadn't told her she'd also be a soulless creature intent on the ruination of lives well beyond her lifetime.

Noah breached the edge of the alley and looked both ways, pulling back into the shadows as he saw the young hunter making his way down the hill from Ali's house. He'd thought for sure their fling would take all night. He'd obviously read the hunter wrong; now he had to wait. Hope the kid left the area, stayed oblivious. He wasn't feeling up to a big reveal right now; his side hurt like hell and he was working on a wicked headache.

He _could_ explain this to the kid, sure – especially if the hunter had dealt with vamps before. But he didn't _want_ to. The kid hadn't picked up on the female vamp back at the bar and Noah didn't need some rack 'em and stack 'em hunter getting in his way.

He _had_ to find that nest.

Noah tucked himself back into the corner, the vamp's head dangling from one hand, her body from the other, the sting in his side throbbing like a latent heartbeat, his body ticking down with exhaustion, and watched as the hunter walked down the hill, hands buried in his jacket pockets, his eyes at the ground. Noah could see the kid's radar was going nuts, hypersensitive to each sound, each movement caught from the corners of his eyes.

The hunter jerked his head to the left, pausing his movement, his hand going to his back waistband, then relaxed as a cat strutted across his path. If Noah didn't know better, he'd guess the kid was minus a partner – and the loss was recent. No one was _this_ vigilant unless they were used to having someone at their back. This kid was going to wear himself out inside the next week if he didn't find another way to stay aware.

As Noah watched, the hunter made his way to a big, black Chevy, unlocking the door and easing himself inside. Noah waited….and waited. The engine never turned on. Frowning, glancing around him in the thin hours of what was left of the night, Noah dropped the vamp's head and arm, and angled himself along the wall of the building, working his way up to a tree near to where the Chevy was parked. It was a boat of a car, late sixties or seventies model; he'd never had an eye for cars.

He didn't get too close; he knew if the kid had been a hairs breadth from shooting a random cat, he would be taking his life in his hands if he startled the weary hunter now. But the fact that he'd left Ali's before the night was over and yet wasn't driving away…it gnawed at Noah. Something wasn't right.

Silently, on cat-like feet Noah stepped away from the tree, slipping just close enough to the Chevy that he could see inside the driver's side window. The hunter was sitting behind the wheel; his head canted back, his hands in his lap, fingers wrapped around a pistol. He looked exhausted and Noah felt something tug inside of him where long ago his heart used to be. The kid was worn out. Done in. Whatever had driven him from Ali's bed had quit on him the moment he thought himself safe. Noah didn't have the heart to wake him.

Part of him knew that this hunter was here for a reason. Noah had managed to turn Rufus away, but knew the cagey old hunter wouldn't let it lie. Too many deaths under suspicious circumstances; that kid was here to take out some vampires. And that meant he would have to confront this kid sooner or later – not to mention stay one step ahead of him if he was going to get to the nest before the kid got himself killed or his efforts chased the brood to a new nest.

But as he watched the hunter sleep, his fingers flexing spastically around the grip of his gun, Noah knew there would be another chance. Hunters might think they were superhuman simply because they knew what lurked in the shadows, but they were as fragile as anyone else. They could break.

Exhaling slowly, he put his empathy for the hunter behind him. There was no place for that here. No place for that in his life. He crept back to the alley, grabbed what was left of the vamp, and made his way down the alley, toward the opposite end. He needed a clearing to rid himself of his kill. And then he would need to start all over again.

Because without the nest, none of the rest of this mattered.

Not the pain, not the loneliness. None of it.

www

Dawn's light felt different than the cold, yellow glow of the street lights. At the subtle shift in perception, the moment the sun's rays breached the horizon scouting for their host, Dean woke, the transition from sleep to awareness instantaneous. He opened his eyes, his body stiff, shivering, covered in sweat, the dregs of a nightmare clinging like a cobweb he'd accidentally walked through.

A thin film of early frost had crawled across the base of the Impala's windshield shielding Dean from view as if she were trying to keep him secret, safe. The sky was ribboned with bands of light and the dregs of night; the lingering clouds holding the nightmarish images and faces from his dreams as if they were something he couldn't see no matter how long he stared at it.

Gradually the rush of dream noise that had chased him to awareness subsided and he could hear the world come slowly alive around him – insects greeted one another, birds claimed territory, and the intermittent rev of a car engine down the block toward the interstate told him that it was time for the early-morning white collar workers to say goodbye to their two-point-five kids and depart their white picket fences for the grind.

Dean turned his head, blinking blearily. His neck ached from the angle against the back of the seat. He'd slept like this one too many times. Usually with Sam next to him, head resting against the window. In his mind's eye he saw himself reach over and smack his brother with the back of his hand, speaking too loudly for Sam to _rise and shine, Princess…evil waits for no man_.

This time, he woke alone…except for the lingering sounds of scythes and spears clanking against the cold, metal rack, the rip of skin from muscle, the screams of pain from himself and others.

He rubbed his face and rolled his neck until it popped.

"Son of a….," he groaned. His legs had gotten stiff overnight, his feet tingling with the pins-and-needles effect of sleeping upright. He stamped his feet against the floorboards and stretched his arms forward across the steering wheel.

He needed caffeine. Pronto.

Running his tongue along his teeth he tasted the film there, grimacing as he arched his back from the seat, curving his spine and stretching. Something tickled the back of his brain, and almost-memory, a forgotten word. He shook his head to clear it, certain it was simply a hangover from the nightmare.

If he hadn't parked in a somewhat residential area, he would have stepped from the safe confines of the Impala and relieved himself. As it was, he knew it would be poor form to say the least. He lifted the gun from his lap and stuffed it into the glove box, then turned over the ignition, thinking only to find the nearest diner and about fourteen cups of coffee.

It took until that moment for him to see the uniforms swarming at the entrance to an alley one block down from the bar he'd been in last night, three of them bunched together in what looked like a planning huddle.

"Well, shit," he muttered.

Last thing he needed was to be questioned by the law before he'd had a chance to whip out his fake persona. He shifted to reverse, backed up a block, then turned right, heading the opposite direction from whatever was happening in the alley.

He found a Denny's Restaurant and ducked into the restroom, brushed his teeth, washed his face, and changed his shirt. His boxers would have to wait. His charm had people willing to look past hygiene far more often than Sam would ever admit. And besides…Sam wasn't there to critique, was he?

He grabbed a booth and ordered coffee, pancakes, and bacon, snagging the morning paper from the empty table next to him.

Whatever had been going on in the alley hadn't made the early edition, but it seemed the police were no closer to solving the mystery of the bloodless bodies then they were when Bobby got wind of the hunt. Apparently, however, two people had been found barely alive the night before last, suffering from the same malady as what apparently took the lives of those in the morgue. He skimmed the article, picking out the words _CDC_ and _Federal aid_.

That made his job easier.

After three cups of coffee, he had a plan, thanks to Ali's conspirator's whisper the night before. Heading back out to the Impala, he ducked into the trunk – the weapons carefully hidden by the false bottom – and pulled out his suit, laying it across the back seat. He headed to the nearest gas station and, after fueling up the Chevy, took his suit into the restroom, locking the door behind him.

Changing into his detective guise at the restaurant would have looked too suspicious. This way, he was a little like Superman: changing from average guy to whatever role was going to get the job done.

Grinning at his own ridiculousness, Dean pulled his shirt open, exposing his bare chest and Devil's Trap tattoo to the smudged mirror. The tat reminded him of Ali, and the night before, and his grin grew wider.

"Yeah, I still got it," he bragged quietly, swiftly changing clothes, then checking to make sure his fake badge was still in the inside pocket of the suit jacket.

Leaving the restroom, he glanced around the block as the town of Greeley slowly woke up around him. Everything felt…_normal_. Regular. People moving about, heading to work, dropping kids off at school, thinking about their plans for lunch, the deadlines they had to meet, the test they'd studied for. There wasn't a vibe of worry or panic, despite the story in the morning paper that whatever was harming the citizens of Greeley had yet to be found or stopped.

He dropped his suit bag in the truck of the Impala, then slid behind the wheel, wondering as he always did what it would be like to not know…to be oblivious to the darkness that waited at the edges of awareness, ready to pounce, to maim, to kill.

_Don't keep them any safer, that's for sure_, he mused as he made his way to the hospital, parking around the block and heading inside.

He found the information desk, asking to speak to the doctor whose name he'd seen in the papers that morning. The receptionist paged the doctor and Dean waited, leaning against the desk, looking around the nearly empty room. As the doctor's name was announced once more over the loudspeaker, Dean caught sight of someone leaving the waiting area, pushing through the revolving doors more quickly than the doors seemed to allow.

It was just a flash – dark hair, denim jacket – but the hairs on the back of Dean's neck told him he knew that person. He was about to step away from the desk to follow when he heard a mild voice say behind him, "You paged me?"

Slipping his game face on, Dean pulled his badge from his pocket and turned around.

"Hi. Detective Bill Buckner."

The doctor's bland expression gave no indication he picked up on the alias' similarity to the baseball player.

"How can I help you, Detective?"

"I'm here about those patients. The exanguinated ones."

The doctor frowned, but it seemed more due to the nature of the case than Dean himself. "I'm sorry to tell you this, Detective, but they are no longer patients. We lost one last night, the other just a few hours ago."

Dean lifted his chin, watching the man's face. "Can I assume they've been moved to your morgue?"

The doctor nodded. "I'll take you down. You can speak with Dr. Price, our city Medical Examiner. He's still on premises completing the autopsy of the first…er, latest victim."

Dean narrowed his eyes as the doctor stumbled over the last word, but followed him toward the elevators. They descended in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. As the elevator doors opened, Dean felt himself mentally bracing. The air that greeted them was cold, still, and held a slight metallic taste.

He and Sam had been in enough morgues, crypts, and graves in their years as hunters that Dean was numb to the concept of seeing human remains. But there was something about seeing them in a _morgue_ that always tangled something deep within him. The metal drawer, the Frankenstein-like Y-incision, the harsh, cold lighting – they all managed to twist Dean's stomach.

Dean followed the doctor down the empty hall, their foot-falls echoing off the tiled walls. The doctor waved his ID badge in front of an electronic access panel. Dean jumped slightly as the doors clicked open, but followed the doctor into the wide, sterile room without a word.

The doctor introduced him to the M.E., Dr. Price, an older man who looked to be standing upright simply due to habit. Price took Dean's outstretched hand and Dean inwardly winced at the man's skeletal grip, watching as he tilted his head in question.

"So soon? I thought it would be at least 24 hours."

Dean glanced from the doctor to the M.E. "Twenty-four house until…what?"

"Until you arrived. Your colleague was just here not more than thirty minutes ago."

Dean bit the inside of his lower lip, his brain kicking into overdrive. "My colleague, of course. We must have gotten our signals crossed. We'll have to sync back up…but until then, maybe you could go over your findings with me?"

Price shrugged. "Of course."

As the doctor left, and Dean followed Price into the cold morgue, his senses battered by the harsh, focused lighting and overpowering stench of decomposition, formaldehyde, and cleanser, his mind felt on fire with possibilities. Legit investigation or hunter? He thought back to the man he'd seen exit the hospital, then let his mind skip to the unrealistic possibility that it could have been Sam – Sam with second thoughts, finding out about the hunt through Bobby, heading to the city, looking for clues before he located his brother….

"…multiple lacerations, and what looks like ligature marks here, here, and around the neck," Price was saying.

Dean blinked, drawing his focus back to the body on the table. It was a woman, mid- to late-twenties, more emaciated than slim, her face untouched, but her body nearly dissected with narrow cuts. He saw that above her clavicle, across her belly, and down her sides puncture marks in the crescent shape of a bite stood out against her white, marbled skin. And she'd definitely been bound.

"Who is she?" Dean asked.

Price looked askance at him. "That was the first question your colleague asked as well." He picked up a file. "Surprised me, actually."

Dean glanced from the body to the M.E. "Why's that?"

The man lifted a shoulder. "Plain clothes cop like that…usually they want the facts, not the faces. Ah, here it is. Prints ID her as a Melissa George. Student at Saint Elizabeth's," he frowned down at the girl's body, "a Roman Catholic college nearby."

Dean was still chewing on the man's comment about the plain-clothes cop when Price moved to a drawer and pulled it open, revealing another emaciated body, this time of a young man, the decomposition having progressed much further than the girl's. The skin along the cheekbones was pulled taut, the eyes sunken into the skull, the body cloaked in the greenish-gray hue that said nature had taken over and science was their only ally. Price picked up a file he'd left on the chest of the deceased.

"Huh."

"What is it?"

"Well, I didn't put it together until you and your friend asked, but…," he moved away from the drawer and opened another door, pulling out another body and another file. Dean watched quietly until the M.E. had opened three drawers and held five files in his hand. "Of the five bodies showing the same signs of mutilation and torture, three were students at Saint Elizabeth's."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "That's more than a coincidence," he muttered. "And no one else picked up on this? No one reported a rash of disappearances from the school?"

Price shook his head. "This last victim was brought here just last night."

"Any idea how long she's been missing?"

The man moved to his computer, the keys rattling beneath his swift, latex-covered fingers. "She was reported missing two weeks ago."

Dean looked back over at the body, thinking through the hell that had to have been visited upon her during those weeks.

"She was the shortest, though."

"Come again?" Dean asked, frowning at the M.E.

"The shortest length of time missing," he clarified. "That one there," he indicated with his chin to the drawer nearest them, "has been missing for three months."

Dean worried his bottom lip with his teeth, his brain humming through the facts. "How long would you say he'd been dead when the body was discovered?"

The M.E. matched Dean's frown. "No more than forty-eight hours."

Dean moved over to the body, trying to school his features and avoid grimacing as he stared at the skeletal-like remains. The same marks on the neck and wrists…the same lacerations along the chest and bite marks on the torso….

"So, they took them and kept them."

"To torture," the M.E. concluded.

_Or feed,_ Dean mused. He hadn't heard of vampires keeping their prey alive for that long in the past, but at this point, nothing would surprise him. He needed to get to that school, check out the grounds.

"Think I could get a copy of those files?" Dean asked.

Price nodded. "Of course. Should I just send them to your hotel?"

Dean ran a tongue across his bottom lip. "Actually, haven't set up shop anywhere yet. I'll just come back to pick them up."

"Or, I could just send another copy to where your colleague is staying," Price suggested. "Won't be any trouble to send two."

Dean tilted his head. "Oh, right, the…." He lagged long enough, hoping the older man would fill in the blank and save him some footwork.

"White Pine Inn. Out by the lake."

"Of course, yeah. Do that." Dean smiled tightly. He shook the man's hand, thanking him for his time, then pushed the door open with more force than he'd intended.

Plain clothes, White Pine Inn? It wasn't Sam, that much was certain. No matter what, Sam knew the code: first hotel in the phone book. He was certain that even if his brother had elected to return, he wouldn't have hidden from Dean. Not like this.

Which made Dean both relieved and disappointed for the same reason: his brother hadn't followed him to this hunt. The conflicting emotions were strong enough that Dean sagged against the wall of the empty elevator a moment as he rode back up to the main floor. He'd hunted on his own plenty of times before – while Sam was at school, for example.

It wasn't that he _couldn't_ do this. It wasn't that he didn't want to, even. It was simply that he _had to_. Each time he'd been on his own it had been due to someone else's choice. A hunter alone didn't have a long life expectancy that was common knowledge.

And yet…they still left. Dad, Sam…when it was right for _them_, they picked up and walked off, leaving Dean to live the life he'd been trained to live – the only life he knew. Sure he was capable, but it didn't make it sting any less. And the bottom line was, he felt…expendable.

He bounced his head against the elevator wall, trying to force the thought away, but it persisted like an itch at the back of his brain. He would _never_ have left them – either of them, no matter what. And yet they'd both walked away. He said he understood; the logic of their individual decisions resonated with him. But there was a space inside of him…a place he didn't choose to pay close attention to…a place that caused him more pain than he wanted to admit…where he felt their absence like a missing limb.

Dean pushed through the elevator doors before they'd fully opened and shouldered past a surprised nurse, his tense face sending people out of his way as he approached. The hospital air pressed down around him, people in the hall nothing but blurred faces, muted conversations simply white noise.

It hadn't been Sam. And the fact that he'd _wanted_ it to be Sam – even for a moment – pissed Dean off. So who the hell was tag-teaming him?

He made his way back up through the lobby, now more than filled with people, and pushed through the revolving door. The slight chill of mid-morning helped erase the false cold of the morgue; smell of death was replaced by exhaust and outside and people and life.

Dean took a grateful breath the moment he stepped into the sunshine. His exhale ghosted out in a thin fog and he felt his shoulders relax a fraction. The fresh air was marred by the tang of cigarette smoke coming from his right; Dean turned to find the source of the smoke and the moment he saw the figure he mentally kicked himself for not picking up on it an hour ago.

"_You_?"

Noah leaned against the sun-drenched side of the hospital building, his shoulders rolled back against the brick as if soaking up the heat. He had one foot propped up, a hand draped casually in his jacket pocket, and was pulling in a drag from a freshly lit cigarette. He looked, Dean thought, as if he'd been waiting for Dean to emerge.

"Took you long enough," Noah commented, his accent catching Dean's ear once again. "You get their life stories or what?"

"_You're_ the plain clothes cop," Dean scoffed, taking in the man's attire. "And they fell for that?"

Noah lifted a shoulder. "People will believe almost anything if you don't give them a reason not to."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Wow, thanks, Confucius."

He moved past Noah, heading to the Impala. Bobby had told him there was another hunter on the case; he'd picked up a vibe from this guy last night. Why the _hell_ had it taken him so long to make the connection? He had to get focused.

"You sure you wanna go that way?" Noah asked him.

"Think I remember where I parked my car, thanks," Dean tossed back over his shoulder.

"No, that's—" Noah stopped mid-sentence and Dean heard a muttered curse as he continued to draw away from the other man.

"Kid. Hey, kid, would you hold up a minute!" Dean heard boots slap against the pavement and he half-turned, anticipating the man's grab. He ducked away from Noah's hand and stepped out of reach. "Whoa, okay, easy." Noah held up his hands. "I just want to help, is all. We're after the same thing, here."

"Is that right?" Dean lifted an eyebrow, not ready to give this guy an inch of respect until he'd earned it. "I don't even know you, man."

Something subtle shifted in Noah's blue eyes like quicksilver, turning his expression from bland and open to sharp and wary. He settled back on his heels, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm the guy that saved your ass from that female vamp last night."

Dean felt his brows pull close, moving as casually as his tense body would allow toward the Impala. "What the hell are you talk—"

"The blonde from The Bottleneck, left with her mark just before you…," Noah flicked an eyebrow, the side of his mouth ticking up, "walked Ali home."

Dean looked away, eyes darting in thought. "Wait, the blonde…?"

A rush of adrenaline surged through him, hot then cold, as if he'd narrowly escaped a direct hit. He _knew_ he'd missed something. It had been a slow burn at the back of his mind as he walked to and from Ali's house, working its way through his Hellish nightmares to taunt him with an indistinguishable, whispered reminder.

"Son of a bitch."

"So, if you're going to try to go after these things—"

"Hold up." Dean brought his chin up, eyes hard as he stared at the other man. He was so not in the mood for this. "I'm not going to _try _anything. I'm gonna waste these bitches."

"You're going to get yourself killed," Noah muttered, shaking his head as if Dean just wasn't getting it. Insulted, Dean took a step forward, but Noah wasn't finished. He dropped his arms, leaning forward, lowering his voice and pointing at Dean to make his meaning clear. "These things are _ancient_. They don't care who they take or when. They will tear you up and spit you out and no one will ever know what happened to you."

Noah's words spilled cold reality down Dean's spine for more reasons than one. Except for Bobby – who was several states away – no one knew where he was or why he was there. Unless he was able to get a message to Castiel, Noah's prediction could very easily come true.

He swallowed hard, staring back at the hunter's angry features. He'd finally placed the accent – East Coast. Boston, maybe. These vampires were killing in this guy's back yard, so Dean could give him some personal investment here.

But when it came to evil, there was no such thing as jurisdiction.

"You about done, here, Will Hunting?" Dean narrowed his eyes at him. "'Cause as it turns out, I've been doing this awhile."

"Kid, listen—" Noah put his hand out as if to placate Dean.

Dean pushed it away. "Cut it out with this 'kid' bullshit. You're about two minutes older than me. And if you've got a beef with these things? I get it. I do." He thrust his chin forward. "But it's not gonna stop me from putting them down."

Noah's voice was hard, his words like bullets as they shot out toward Dean through clenched teeth. "You go after these things one by one, you're gonna get a lot more people killed."

Dean turned away, intent on getting into the Impala and getting on with it. Noah grabbed his arm, pulling him back and turning him around. Dean reacted instinctively to the touch – it was foreign and unwelcome. He turned, fist raised, and caught Noah off-guard, connecting with his jaw and sending him stumbling backwards.

"Lay off, man," Dean snapped.

With a frustrated growl, Noah rubbed at his sore jaw. "You are going about it all wrong. It's not about the ones taking victims from the school – it's about _where_ they're taking them to!"

That brought Dean's head up. Noah saw and latched onto it. He moved forward, brows pulled close, face intent, into Dean's personal space, crowding him and setting him off-balance.

"They're classifying victims: young, strong, relatively alone. Someone who wouldn't be missed immediately, but could feed them for months. But that's _easy_ to figure out. You need to figure out _where_ they're taking them if you want this to stop."

Dean ignored the last of Noah's words, remembering the ligature marks on the bodies, the cuts along the torso, and his blood went cold.

"_Feed_ them?" He'd been right. Dammit. Sometimes he hated being right.

His question seemed to trigger Noah, causing the other hunter to grab the front of Dean's suit jacket and shoved him against the side of the Impala. "You have _no idea_ what you're dealing with," Noah growled, his eyes seeming to go hot and flat at once.

Dean grabbed Noah's wrists, surprised by the iron-like strength of the man's grip. He dug his fingers into flesh, and said in a low, dangerous voice, "If you want to actually walk away from this, let go now."

Noah took a shallow breath, shifting his eyes to either side as if suddenly realizing they were standing on a public sidewalk. He let go of Dean's jacket, then took two steps back.

Dean straightened up, then put his hand on the Impala's door handle. "You got your way of doing things, I've got mine."

Noah shook his head once, a rueful, sickened expression crossing his face. "Kid, your way is going to get you killed." He looked away, shaking his head again, then rested his hands on his hips. "You're gonna fuck it all right the hell up, aren't ya?"

Not waiting for Dean to formulate an answer to that one, Noah walked off, practically stomping across the street and disappearing around the corner.

Dean stared after him for a moment before jerking the door open with a soft, "Jackass."

He slid behind the wheel and fished out his cell phone, scrolling to Bobby's number and hitting 'send.' He got Bobby's voicemail and growled into the receiver, "Bobby, what do you know about the other hunter on this case? Think I just ran into him."

He flipped the phone shut, staring after the direction Noah had disappeared before shaking his head, turning on the car and pulling away.

* * *

**a/n:** Thanks for reading! Those of you missing Sam…while he influences Dean's mental and emotional state, he's not going to be present for awhile. I'm keeping the brother's connection and interaction as close to canon as possible, so watch for him to be back in the final chapter.

The case is starting to heat up. And these vamps are about to mess with Dean's head on multiple levels.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: **Night of the Hunter  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Author**: gaelicspirit  
**Characters:** Dean, OC, with appearances by Sam, Bobby, and Castiel  
**Disclaimer/Warning:** They're not mine. More's the pity. Title of the story comes from a 30 Seconds To Mars song of the same name. This story is definitely PG-13 and might be considered borderline R in some parts for language, violence, and one mature scene in the first chapter.

**Author's Note: **I decided to post chapters 2 and 3 together as one builds into the other and they are shorter than the rest. Chapter 4 will be coming in a week. Hope to see you then!

* * *

_Does it feel like we've never been alive?  
Does it seem like it's only just begun?  
Does it feel like we've never been alive inside?  
Does it seem it's only just begun?_

30 Seconds to Mars, _R-Evolve_

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**CHAPTER THREE**

It had been awhile since Noah had been angry. Felt any sort of emotion other than a desperate focus on the mission. On finding that nest. On taking them all out. Every last one, ensuring that _he_ was the one to end it.

He'd had such a singular intent for so many years he hadn't had time to cultivate any sort of connection with people in general. He spoke when he needed to, used people when necessary, depended on no one. He worked alone. He was comfortable with that; it was _necessary_. Having some hunter – no matter how long he'd been at this – get in the way of his primary objective was twisting Noah up inside.

He'd run several blocks, trying to burn off that anger, the chilled air burning his lungs, T-shirt sweat-stuck to his heated skin along the valley of his spine and across his chest. His dog tags bounced uncomfortably against his sternum until he grabbed them and stuffed them down inside his shirt. It wasn't until he reached a block of parallel parked cars that he finally stopped.

Taking a breath, Noah tried to calm the rush of blood slamming behind his eyes, sending his senses reeling. He moved down the line of cars, trying the door handles. He was _too close_ for that kid to fuck this up now…he'd been looking for too long. He'd come across other hunters, working around them and avoiding them. He hadn't needed someone's help since—

A door handle gave beneath his grip and Noah slid behind the wheel, pulling the wires from beneath the steering column free to trigger the ignition. If that kid was going to head to the school, then Noah would get there ahead of him. In all the years he'd been tracking this pack, he knew they had picked the same victims types over and over again – but once they sensed someone got a fix on them, they moved on.

He knew the kid was onto something; the problem was that he didn't realize how big this was. It wasn't just one vamp, or a dozen vamps. It was a hundred. Two hundred. Even Noah didn't know how many they'd grown to, this nest. All he knew is that they were relentless, taking on more than they could sustain, looking for victims to assimilate, to feed on….

They destroyed lives and broke hearts and ended futures without prejudice.

And no matter what, Noah knew he had to be there when the hornet's nest was kicked. But first, he needed to stock up on supplies. He pulled into the parking lot at the White Pine Inn, surprise turning to grudging respect when he recognized the black Chevy parked in a space several down from him.

He got out of his stolen car, staring at the hunter's vehicle, wondering how he managed to stay under the radar driving a monster like that.

"Not exactly a stealth-mobile," he muttered.

Turning, Noah made his way to the office and asked the front desk clerk if the city Medical Examiner had sent something over for him. The anger that had flared hot not an hour ago resurfaced when she told him that his _partner_ had picked it up for him.

"Ah, right," he bounced his fist on the edge of the counter. "I forgot I'd asked him to do that. Remind me what room he's in?"

"I'm…not supposed to give out that information, sir," the girl replied, hesitant, eyes darting around the empty lobby. "You can call him, though." She reached for the desk phone.

Noah shook his head. "Not a problem. I'm sure I'll be able to find him," he smiled at her, letting it warm his eyes.

"I suppose…since you're a cop," she said, leaning forward and looking at her room list. "Detective Buckner's in 131…just a few rooms down from you."

He turned his smile up a few degrees and winked at her. "Thanks."

Returning to his room, he changed from his denim jacket to the leather motorcycle jacket he'd taken off of a dead vamp three years ago—the _last_ time he'd been this close to the nest—and slid a flask filled with Holy water, a small but effective machete, the silver-tipped wooden stake, and his Beretta filled with silver bullets into various compartments and hiding places inside the jacket lining.

Then he waited.

He'd perfected the art of waiting, able to sit for long stretches of time perfectly still. He liked the quiet, the peace of listening to his own heartbeat. The noise of life was sometimes so overpowering, he got lost inside of it. He needed to know where he was, remember _who_ he was, at all times. He needed to know who was around him. He did that best when the world was quiet, though that happened so rarely.

As the daylight was starting to fade, the world taking on the dusky hue of twilight, he heard the roar of an engine. Peeking out through the curtains of his hotel room, he saw the black Chevy backing out of the lot. He knew exactly how long it would take the kid to get to the school, and how many minutes he could shave off that time by cutting through the woods. A bit of an unorthodox approach when there wasn't exactly a road through the woods, but what did he care?

It wasn't _his_ car.

He pulled the thin leather gloves from his pockets and slipped them on as a precaution. Some hunters were scary in their paranoia. Heading down to room 131, he picked the lock – thankful that the White Pine Inn still usedactual keys – and slipped inside, stepping carefully over a line of salt along the threshold of the doorway. The room smelled of gun oil, leather, and whiskey. He could also pick up the scent of Ivory soap and surmised the kid had showered and changed out of his fake detective suit before leaving.

There wasn't much in the way of clues as to who this kid was; aside from a duffel bag and a stack of folders that Noah knew had been meant for him. Fingering open the duffel, he saw clothes rolled up in tight, military fashion. He glanced around the room once more. There was nothing else to indicate the kid was military…might just be the result of the nomadic life of a hunter. He opened the duffel wider and saw a leather-bound journal.

Lifting it out of the duffel, Noah fanned through the pages, eyes widening slightly at the history of supernatural creatures captured within. Toward the end of the journal, the handwriting changed and he realized that someone had picked up the torch, carrying it forward. Flipping back to the back, he saw a list of names and numbers, one that sparked a memory: Bobby Singer.

"Singer," he whispered.

He'd known a Bobby Singer. A long time ago. Young guy, very angry. Thought he could tackle the supernatural the way he'd once tackled the Viet Cong. Could this be the same guy?

He hadn't found the kid's name, though he did have a better appreciation for his experience. There was a stillness about the room – more than just being devoid of people. There was…loss here. Noah recalled sensing this hunter was minus a partner. His eyes slid to the second bed in the room, wondering if he might be onto something with this hunter. Wondering if there was something more than just the shared drive to rid the world of evil that drove this kid.

A quick glance at the clock on the nightstand told him that he needed to get a move on if he was going to beat the kid there. He'd have to come back for the files from the M.E.

Noah bumped and rattled his stolen car across the rough terrain between the trees after cutting across the highway. Night came quickly to the woods, but he had excellent vision in the dark. His eyes bounced back and forth across the windshield as he cut through the trees and clearings to reach the rear entrance of the main campus church.

He stopped there, getting out of the car, and slipping along the side of the building. Cloud cover blocked the moonlight, but he knew that the gibbous moon wouldn't have offered him much help. He'd spent so many of his nights looking for those who would ruin the day, he'd become quite familiar with the way the darkness breathed.

"Where would you start looking, kid?" he whispered.

His eyes tracked along the walkway outside of the church, up the hill to the small campus village, then down the path to where the classes were held. Campuses made him melancholy – mostly because they seemed to be such prime hunting grounds for the supernatural.

He always found himself wondering what the victims he came across had wanted to be, what they'd planned on becoming when they'd first arrived on campus. The endless possibilities of a finite life. The innocence of youth. The excitement of new beginnings.

Noah's blood pumped through his veins with renewed force; he could almost hear its rush as he moved quietly through the buildings, listening, looking, watching for the young hunter. It was the smell that triggered him first: the smell of death.

Something was feeding.

"Let him go."

Noah stiffened at the sound of the hunter's voice; he turned to stand in the shadowed entrance of an alley. He could see everything from here: the hunter stood with a machete facing off against a heavyset, dark-haired vamp that was in the process of subduing a dewy-eyed male student and, presumably, haul him off to the nest.

The nest Noah needed to find.

"Hey, Baldy – you deaf?" The hunter rotated his knife in the palm of his hand, his body tense, his knees bent. "I said let him go."

Noah saw that the kid was ready for a fight. It surprised him that he'd tracked the vamp so quickly; it was as if he'd known where to look when Noah knew that was impossible. Even _he_ hadn't known where the vamp would be and he'd been hunting them for longer than he wanted to remember. The kid had to just be incredibly lucky.

"You amuse me, hunter," the vampire hissed, not yet regressed to the primeval language that made them impossible to understand. Noah drew further back into the shadows.

"I'm flattered. Now drop him," the hunter ordered, his voice leaving no quarter.

The vampire hissed again, a deep, guttural sound that made Noah's heart clench, his belly turning to liquid. He recognized that call. There were more out there, feeding, searching. Within hearing distance. The hunter was toast unless Noah stepped in pretty qui—

Noah blinked, awed by how fast the kid moved. Between one breath and the next, the victim was pulled from the vampire's grip, held loosely against the hunter's body as the vamp's shoulders were relieved of the weight of its head. Gaping, Noah watched as the hunter set the groggy, wounded boy down, tipping him back against the building.

"Hey," the hunter said, tapping the boy's cheeks. "Listen to me. You are having a totally fucked up dream and you are _never_ going to try 'shrooms again, got it?"

The boy nodded, his pale face tense as he closed his eyes tightly.

"Get up now and go straight back to your dorm," the hunter ordered, gripping the front of the boy's hoodie with one hand, his other pressing the hood to the boy's neck to staunch the flow of blood. "Do not pass Go, do _not_ collect $200."

"'kay," the boy rasped.

Noah watched as the kid hauled the boy to his feet, turning him and pointing him away from danger. "Go!" he ordered, watching as the boy stumbled away.

_They're coming_.

Noah felt them approaching, heard the hissing voices, smelled the rotted-earth stench that always made him want to gag. He knew there were more nearby. Knew they'd felt their kinsman meet his death. Knew they'd be coming for him – for him and for the young hunter. He turned, stepping out of the shadow to find the hunter, his focus completely on warning him, when he was slammed from behind, the screech of the vamp echoing in his ear like a deranged harpy.

He hit the ground, rolling as the impact sent him sprawling into the alley where he'd last seen the hunter. When his forward motion stopped, Noah flipped to a crouch, looking around for the vamps, for the kid, for anything. He was greeted by complete darkness: no stars, no moon, no dancing shadows, no cloying light.

"What the hell?"

There were at least ten vampires filling the small alley, pressing against each other, closing in on him, angry and hungry.

"Don't move." He heard the kid's voice at his ear, registered there were hands at his shoulders and side, and realized that somewhere in the tussle, he'd instinctively grabbed his silver-tipped stake and was now holding it out in front of himself like a warning.

"Okay, backwards," the kid's urgent whisper tickled the fine hairs along the edges of Noah's ear, "slowly."

Noah felt the kid's hands tug gently at his body and registered that the hunter was trying to pull him out of danger. He stepped back, but didn't make it two steps before the vamps hissed, launching themselves forward, and leaving Noah and the young hunter two choices: fight or die.

The kid was close enough that Noah felt his muscles tense and roll, pushing his body forward into a fighter's stance, his machete up, his knees bent, ready for the impact. Noah had seen this too many times: a hunter who thought himself skilled enough, taken down by sheer number. Noah had a bigger mission: the nest. He couldn't go down here, not now.

_Sorry,_ he mentally projected toward the hunter, before twisting away, turning and running toward the alley exit.

He made it all of five steps before he was hit from behind, his chest and chin crashing against the gravel-covered ground as the vamp's weight crushed into him – two hundred pounds of death-stench, supernatural muscle, and ancient need.

"Fuck," Noah breathed, shoving his hands into the gravel beneath him and pushing himself over, onto his back.

Crouched above him was a vamp who had once been a fifty-something woman, probably someone's mother, maybe someone's grandmother. Her eyes were cat-like slits, her jagged teeth dripping the poison-like saliva that had the power to incapacitate a victim in moments.

Noah growled, twisting, and slammed the flat of his arm across her face, dislodging her. He used her momentary distraction to gain his feet, moving swiftly backwards to the shadows, eyes darting around the darkened ally, hearing the sounds of attack and struggle, but unable to see much of anything except shadows shifting.

He could _smell _them, though.

None had spiked that intense odor of decomposing flesh he'd learned to associate with this breed feeding; with the college boy gone, the only one left to feed on would be the hunter and as long as the scent didn't spike, Noah knew the kid was still in one piece. Pulling his machete from its sheath and raising it with the stake, he turned to the grandma and with a powerful downward stroke loosed her head from her shoulders, registering the group of vamps react to his action.

As she was no longer a threat, Noah shifted as he heard the _pop-pop-pop_ of bullets, trying to discern where the hunter was, before another vamp body-slammed him, shoving him roughly against a wall.

He felt a hungry mouth at this throat, the razor sharp teeth at his skin, and he thrust the silver-tipped stake upwards, immobilizing it so that he could behead it. Two down. Panting, his arms trembling from exertion, his mind whirring from the disorienting darkness, Noah turned to run toward the opening, sensing pursuit. He broke through the cover of darkness the buildings provided and stumbled against the kid's car, parked right at the entrance.

Rolling across the hood of the Chevy, Noah brought his weapons up, staring down the entrance as he was followed by three vamps, all of varying ages, all thin and desperate for blood.

"C'mon, you sonsabitches," he growled, gripping the stake tight and rolling the machete in his palm.

They hit him with force, sending him sprawling, air blasting from his lungs, eyes burning from their fetid breath, arms pinned, heart hammering.

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Dean hadn't been in a full-on brawl like this in months.

Last time, Sam had been next to him, fighting back-to-back. They could read each other, predict each other's movements. Together, they were a force to be reckoned with. Dean had known that with his little brother there, he was more powerful. Not only was his six covered, but he had a reason to _win_.

Fight alone, he just needed to not die.

When he saw the other hunter – Noah – from the bar show up out of the blue, Dean didn't know if he should be relieved or worried. He had seen Noah take out the creepy grandma, but in the meantime a former WWF contestant had attempted to rip Dean's arm from its socket. Dean's guttural scream of pain and rage was masked by the hissing sound the group emitted as Noah took out one of their own.

Dean took advantage of the vamp-wrestler's distraction by firing three silver bullets into its heart before dislodging himself and heading for the Impala. College kids or not, this was more than just a couple vamps. These things were vicious and there were more of them than one hunter could handle.

He _really_ needed to call Bobby.

Just as he reached the Impala, Dean felt the cold fingers and sharp talons of another vampire gripping his shoulder and pulling him backwards. Growling with frustration, Dean turned, using his momentum to knock it off balance. It didn't last long: the creature seized him, slamming him against the wall of the building nearest the Impala. Dean raised his forearm, blocking a blow, then side-kicked to take out the vamp's knee.

Another creature swarmed him and Dean brought his elbow up, catching it in the throat, sending it staggering backwards. Turning, machete up, Dean caught sight of Noah, moving like water through the oil of three vamps. He was all angles and force, cracking one across the mouth, another in the sternum. Dean was momentarily buoyed by the fact that two hunters were holding their own against a cadre of vampires, until he saw one hit Noah's forearm, loosening his grip on the silver-tipped stake.

Dean felt his body reject the sight as he watched the vamp flip the stake around in its hand and shove the weapon into Noah's side, causing the hunter to gasp in pain and surprise, the vamp dropping him to the ground before turning toward Dean.

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered, crouching low as four vamps moved slowly, purposefully toward him.

_This is it_, he thought, wondering how many times he'd felt the reality of those words in his lifetime. He could run, he knew, but he wouldn't get far. Plus he'd be leaving a fellow hunter bleeding out on the ground and a town full of innocents at the mercy of an innumerable amount of vampires.

Blanking his mind, unwilling to think about _what if_s and _if only_s, Dean grabbed the vamp closest to him by the throat, surprising the creature, and shoved it against the hood of his car.

"Eat it, Twilight," he growled, slicing the machete across the creature's throat, a splash of blood spilling over the black surface of the Impala's hood and onto Dean's face, the vamp's head spiraling off to the right and the body falling in a heap against the grill.

Dean turned, blood coating his blade, running down his hand and forearm, to face the other three. "Who's next?"

A screech – not unlike the sound of a hawk descending on an unsuspecting mouse – sounded off to the right, on the other side of the alley opening. The remaining vamps looked up as one, responding to the call, and turned, heading back down the alley, leaving Dean standing with a dripping machete, his body trembling with adrenaline, his car covered in vampire gore and four headless bodies strewn around him.

He dragged the back of his hand across his blood-spattered face, trying to catch his breath. Dropping his machete next to the body of the last vamp, Dean hurried around the front of the Impala to where Noah lay gasping, trying to sit up, his body visibly shaking from the intrusion of the stake.

"Easy," Dean exhaled, hardly able to get his suddenly trembling lips around the word as he dropped down beside the wounded hunter. "Hey, easy. They're gone."

"Gone?" Noah rasped. "All of 'em?"

"I didn't kill 'em," Dean hastily amended, noting the look of disbelief in Noah's eyes. "I got a couple; the rest ran off."

Noah groaned, his neck arching off the pavement. If Dean didn't know better, he'd bet the hunter looked more angry than in pain. He gripped Noah's shirt as the hunter began to weakly push himself away from Dean, inching slowly toward the grill of the Impala.

"Hey, take it easy," Dean soothed. "Let me get this out and we can get you to a hospital."

"Gotta…follow…," Noah gasped, his eyes rolling closed, sweat coating his face. "Nest…. Gotta follow…."

"Whoa, whoa, hey." Dean grabbed Noah's shoulders to halt his movement. "Protocol: wounded hunters first, retreating vampires second."

"I'm fine," Noah growled.

"Dude." Dean shook his head, obliging Noah's efforts by hauling him up to rest against the front of the Impala. Noah groaned audibly, his breath coming in short, brief bursts. "You are about as _fine_ as that snaggle-toothed granny you ganked."

Noah's skin was grayish in the teasing moonlight, sweat matting his hair to his head. Dean crouched down in front of him, noting with not a small amount of panic that the hunter's skin was growing paler, his veins appearing quite dark, his blue eyes seeming to electrify with the effect, turning an illuminated brilliant blue.

Coughing out a breath, Noah pressed a shaking hand against his side, the sluggish blood pooling around the stake wound staining his fingers black. Dean braced him as the hunter gasped with pain.

"Looks like the vamps improvised," Dean muttered softly. "Stabbing you with your own stake."

Noah coughed out a laugh at the irony in Dean's comment, then seemed to stiffen with pain, his jaw shaking, his eyes darting around frantically, as if searching for something to land on.

"Hey, look at me." Dean gripped Noah's jaw, forcing the hunter to focus on him. "Grab my hand…that's it. Okay, now, hang on…this might hurt a bit. You ready?"

Noah nodded stiffly, his eyes on Dean's.

"On three, okay? One, two—" Dean pulled the stake from Noah's side, biting the inside of his lip as the other hunter choked off a ragged scream, his back arching away from the Impala, his hand gripping Dean's painfully. "Three."

Trembling, sweat running into his eyes, Noah looked up at him. "Never…go on three…in the movies."

Dean bunched up Noah's shirt, pressing his free hand against the hunter's side and tightened his hold on Noah's other hand, hoping he was offering some sort of reassurance.

"Yeah, that's what I kinda thought, too," Dean confessed, frowning as Noah's shaking seemed to momentarily increase.

He knew how pain rocked the natural balance a hunter thrived on. He usually had Sam there, holding his hand, meeting his eyes, assuring him that he was going to be okay. He didn't know if Noah had anyone, but Dean figured he could be that guy for him tonight.

"Hey, easy. Take it easy…easy." God, he was so much better at this when it was Sam. He knew how exactly how to comfort his brother, how to get him to focus. "You did great, okay? You're okay." His words felt hollowed out, flat. The adrenalin that had pushed him through the fight was ticking away and in its place panic and worry began to slip in. "I'm just gonna go get something from the back of the car to stop the bleeding until we can get you to a hospital."

"No," Noah shook his head once, not releasing Dean's hand. "No hospital."

"Hey, man," Dean conceded, "I hate 'em, too, but you're bleeding on my car."

"Vamp blood," Noah gasped.

"Well, sure," Dean tilted his head. "Some of it. But that's yours. And that…. And that…."

"No hospital," Noah spat out, his teeth clenched, his face pale and sweaty in the moonlight. "Be okay."

"You're _not_ okay," Dean argued, adjusting his crouch so that he could put more pressure on Noah's wound. Blood seeped out between his fingers, making his grip almost too slick. "You got a hole the size of my arm in your side."

"Just need a minute," Noah breathed. "Just a minute." He tightened his hold on Dean's hand. "Gimme a minute."

"I give you much longer than that and you're gonna bleed out," Dean muttered. This was not good. So much about this was not good.

Noah clenched his jaw, his hand shaking in Dean's. He opened his eyes, sweat gathering on his lashes, and met Dean's worried gaze. "What's your name?"

"Dean. Dean Winchester."

"Winchester, huh?" Noah ground out through clenched teeth. "Like the—"

"Rifle, yeah," Dean interrupted. "Haven't heard that one before."

"Noah Kincade."

"Good to meet you," Dean greeted, his hand cramping. "You gonna make me watch you die, Noah?"

"Not if I can help it," Noah gasped.

"Okay, then," Dean shifted as his calf muscles tightened. "How 'bout you let me go around back to the trunk and get some gauze to put on that wound. We'll just start there, okay?"

"'Kay," Noah nodded, squeezing his eyes shut and releasing his grip on Dean's hand with obvious effort.

Dean used the Impala for support, pushing himself to a wobbly stance, his eyes on Noah as the other hunter pulled in rough gasps for air. Inching away, reassuring himself that Noah wasn't going to die the moment he looked away, Dean moved quickly to the Impala's trunk, sliding back the false bottom, moving away the surplus of weapons to get to the extra stash of bandages and meds.

Grabbing several packages of gauze, tape, and some pain pills, Dean headed back around to the front of the Impala – only to find Noah gone.

"What the hell?"

Dean set the bandages on the hood next to the pool of vamp blood and turning in a full circle, his eyes searching the darkness for the wounded figure of the other hunter. He jogged toward the darkness beyond the Impala, then looked east and west from where he stood.

"Nobody just walks away from a wound like that," Dean said aloud. "Noah!"

Only the echo of his own voice against the muted night answered his call.

"What. The actual. _Hell_?_" _Dean said, incredulous. "Where are you, man?"

Had the vamps returned to grab their wounded prey, seeking only a food source and not a fight? Had Noah slipped away, not trusting Dean to help him?

"Hey!" Dean called again, lacing his fingers behind his head and turning in a full circle, helplessly, before he conceded defeat.

Noah was gone.

Thoughts churning, Dean returned to his car, sagged against the hood, not really enjoying the post-fight feeling of being the last man standing. His eyes tracked to the empty passenger seat, his heart reluctantly admitting to wishing Sam was there. For just _one_ _moment_.

As angry as his brother could make him sometimes – and as much as he hadn't been sure if Sam's head was in the game of late – Sam was as constant and familiar as his own shadow. He wasn't a chance, a question mark, a possible threat. He _knew_ Sam. Or thought he did. And maybe that was his problem.

Dean didn't know who he was if he wasn't the guy who took care of his brother. The person who kept his brother alive. Who brought him back from the brink. Who protected him from himself. Dean stood, covered in blood and gore, facing the quiet lot, vampire bodies surrounding him and realized – all logic and reason aside – he missed having his brother near.

Drawing in a breath, Dean gathered up the bandages, and glanced at the gore-splattered hood of the Impala.

"Don't worry, baby," he said softly to her windshield. "I'll get that offa you," he promised.

He looked around the quiet alley, so alive with noise moments ago. Darting a look back toward campus, he had to admit he was surprised their fight hadn't attracted the attention of even a security guard. He had to wonder what sort of justification people used when they heard things like those vampire hisses and didn't investigate.

Bending down to pick up his discarded machete, he glanced with disgust at the headless body. He was going to have to clean this up – find somewhere to haul off and burn four vampire bodies.

"Won't that be fun," Dean grumbled to the night. He idly kicked at the solid, immobile corpse nearest him. "After this, I'm so getting me some pie."

It crossed his mind to simply leave them. Let the clergy find them when they returned to their chapel in the morning. Let the people see the real danger that lurked in the night. But it wouldn't matter. Because they didn't look like vamps now. They looked like victims of a deranged lunatic. And his prints were all over them.

So, burn them it was. And after, he had to call Bobby. This vamp problem was bigger than he'd realized – more than one hunter could handle. More than he'd handled before, that was for sure.

And this time, Dean was alone.

www

His blood was on fire.

He felt it licking through each part of him, hungry to devour him from the inside out before it spilled from his rapidly-healing wound. Stumbling forward, Noah grit his teeth as he pressed his hand even tighter against his side, knowing that had it just been a wooden stake, in an hour there would be nothing left but a thin, pink line and the lingering weakness of having lost so much blood.

The silver tipping the end, though….

Bile built at the back of his throat, shivers slipping down the length of him even as he felt sweat break out across his shoulders, face, the back of his neck. He couldn't lose it now; he was still too near the hunter. He'd managed to slip away, banking on the kid to be too busy with getting rid of the vamp bodies to come after him.

Because, if the kid found out the truth—

His muscles seized and Noah went to his knees, hard, on the brick path weaving away from the main part of campus and to a small gazebo behind the chapel. It was dark; the moonlight not potent enough to breach the cover of clouds and canopy of trees. Gripping his belly, instinctively wanting to press against the pain, Noah groaned, his vision wavering as his head spun.

"Fuckin' curse," he gasped, pitching forward as the shakes began. He caught himself on the edge of the bricks, the rough surface digging into the palm of his hand.

He knew he wasn't dying; this had happened too many times before. Didn't mean he didn't _want_ to die. He fell to his side, rolling off the path and to the grass, pulling his knees up close to his chest as his body shook, his heart hammering against his ribcage in a frantic staccato he could have sworn was audible for miles.

Another wave of pain slipped through him, turning the groan he was trying to bite back into a yelp. The only thing saving him was that this had happened at night, when he could crawl away and hide until the pain ran its course; he could hole up and pass out and wait for—

"Did you hear that?"

_Oh, shit, no._

Voices. Along the path. The bob of a flashlight. The scuff of shoes against brick.

Noah tried to quiet his breathing, but the silver had buried too deep. The sickness was vicious and cruel and determined to violently wreck his battered body until it had bled through his pores, through what was left of his wound, through his goddamn tear ducts if it had to. Helplessly, Noah's back arched and he bit a hole in his bottom lip, tasting his own blood.

"There it is again; sounds like…like some kinda wounded animal or something."

"Dude, don't go near it, then."

"If it's hurt, we gotta do something!"

"If it's hurt, it's gonna want to hurt you! 'Sides we're way past curfew."

"Think having our roommate show up with his throat cut open is pretty much a get out of jail free card."

Noah began to crawl away from the voices, pulling himself forward arm over arm, muscle memory of years in the Army propelling him across the rocky terrain covered with dead, crackling leaves, animal dung, and fallen branches.

"Think it's the same thing that got Wes?"

The voice was fainter now, Noah registered. Fainter and afraid.

"Hell if I'm gonna be the one to find out. Dude was messed up."

He didn't see the change in elevation in the dark. One moment he was putting distance between himself and the voices, the next he was rolling, tumbling, free-falling down a hill, careening off of trees, bouncing across rocks, head over heels until he slammed hard against the bottom with a cry that echoed off the night.

"Hey!"

They'd heard him. He was in a world of pain, shaking through the sickness, his hands bloody, his body wracked with the impact against the earth. He wanted to curl up, to cry, to curse everyone and everything around him. He wanted to just lie there for one damn minute and breathe.

But they'd heard him fall. And they were coming for him.

"Hey! I see him! Right there!"

The flashlight cut a beam across his face, right into his eyes, and Noah reacted instinctively, the growl rolling up from his gut sounding both desperate and feral. As the beam began to bounce with the decent of the owner, Noah found another gear. The wound on his side had closed, eliminating it as a possible exit for the silver that was making him sick, but the fall had helpfully opened up several other places on his skin and as he bled, the poison escaped.

He pushed himself to his feet, and ran. He had lost track of where he was, how far from campus, if he was headed back to town or further away from it. He just could _not_ be caught. He was too _close_ to be caught now. He could feel them approaching, the bobbing light catching branches above his head, leaves at his feet.

He ran, zig-zagging as he heard his CO's voice in his head, bellowing that the closest distance between two people is a straight line. _Evade, escape, adapt, survive_. It had been drilled into him as part of his training and had served him well as a hunter. Especially since he hunted alone. Always alone.

The distance between himself and his pursuers increased, but he ran on until he finally felt the heated, almost orgasmic release of the silver bleeding from his body. He tripped, grabbing the trunk of a tree for support as a euphoric feeling of liberation overtook his senses, sending the world sideways, giving him the sensation of weightlessness.

The silver was hot; he felt it run down his face from his eyes, felt it drip from his fingers, sizzling as it hit the dead leaves below. He wanted to collapse, let his trembling legs rest as he curled up to sleep off the fatigue he felt creeping up to overtake him. But he hadn't lost them, not yet. Moving drunkenly from tree to tree, falling against one, using another to pull his body forward, Noah kept moving, deeper into the forest, not knowing where he was going, only that he had to get away.

He didn't see the house until he was right on top of it.

More of the skeletal remains of a house, actually. Half the roof was missing, the windows were shattered, the door was more of a thought. But the walls were stone and were standing and it didn't look like anyone had been there in a long, long time. Noah lurched inside, the remains of the door disintegrating as he pushed it open.

The dark of the house seemed to welcome him, enveloping his body in its secret and holding him close. He took two steps before his body called for a time-out. He pitched forward, not even able to brace his fall, and the dirty stone floor felt like the softest feather bed.

* * *

**a/n:** Thanks for reading! Would love to know your thoughts. Hope to see you with Chapter 4. Slainte!


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: **Night of the Hunter  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Author**: gaelicspirit  
**Characters:** Dean, OC, with appearances by Sam, Bobby, and Castiel  
**Disclaimer/Warning:** They're not mine. More's the pity. Title of the story comes from a 30 Seconds To Mars song of the same name. This story is definitely PG-13 and might be considered borderline R in some parts for language, violence, and one mature scene in the first chapter.

**Author's Note: **Thanks so much for your reviews. Your words are gold to me. Some of you have reviewed without logging in and I'm not able to directly reply to you; I want you to know your comments and time are very much appreciated. Hope you enjoy what's to come; the case is going to get a bit more complicated – and more personal – from here.

* * *

_You could smell it  
So you left me on my own  
To complete the mission  
Now I'm leaving it all behind_

30 Seconds to Mars, _Hunter_

www

**CHAPTER FOUR**

"Bobby, I'm telling you, man, these things aren't like anything we've seen before."

Dean stopped the Impala in a recess of the motel, near a maintenance shed. He shoved the gear into park and sat back in his seat, exhausted. The inside of his nose was still coated with the stench of burning flesh, his face and hands were sooty and dirt-streaked from digging a pit and then burying the ash and bone. His palms were raw from the shovel handle. And his eyes burned, shedding reactionary tears when he closed them.

"They were more like…_30 Days of Night_ than _Vampire Diaries_."

"_What you need is more TV."_

"You sound like Sam." Dean's voice was gruff, but he couldn't help the small tug of a smile.

Bobby was quiet for a moment. Long enough for Dean to count five heartbeats. "You hear from him at all?"

"_Who, Sam?"_

"No. The President. Of the United States of America."

Bobby muttered something that sounded like _smartass_ but didn't reply. His non-answer was enough and Dean let the moment evaporate, releasing Sam for the hundredth time since his brother had walked away.

"Okay, so vampires."

Bobby sighed on his end of the phone. _"So, you're saying they were more…what?"_

"They were…bat-like," Dean supplied, remembering the way the eyes of the one he'd killed on the Impala's hood had narrowed to slits, the curve of its hands as it had reached for him, the jagged teeth set inside a bloodless face. And the hissing. "They hardly resembled humans."

"_You're gonna have to give me more to go on."_

Dean sighed, rubbing his eyes. The events of the evening replayed behind his closed lids like a poorly-edited movie. Forty years in Hell had taught him one survival technique that had gone a long way to save his sanity: separate from the moment. Turn it into a movie, into something that happened to someone else, into something not quite real.

He knew it would become real soon enough, but if he had to replay it, if he _had to_ think about it, it was easier to do so if he could pretend it had happened to someone else – a nameless, faceless person with no heart and no mind and no soul.

"They…hissed. But it was more like they were talking to each other, not just…y'know…making noise. And they all reacted at the same time – the same way – when I ganked the first one."

"_They all?"_ Bobby repeated. _"How many were there?"_

"I dunno. Ten?"

"_Damn, boy."_

"I didn't get them all. I got…two, I think. Noah got a couple. The rest ran off."

"_Noah?"_

"Dude, don't you check your messages?"

"_You think I sit around just waiting for you to call? I been busy."_

"Yeah, yeah," Dean muttered, climbing stiffly out of the car.

Time was he wouldn't have felt the effects of a fight right away. Or at all. He figured the years were starting to weigh on him since, technically, he'd now lived twice his lifetime. Maybe not in this body, but his memory, his heart, his soul…they were all worn out. Worn down.

For the briefest of moments – a breath on the surface of time – he couldn't remember why he was even still doing this.

He kept moving; it was the thing that had kept him grounded when life tossed him sideways. Keep moving, and they couldn't get him. Keep moving and he wasn't in one place long enough that he could let anyone down. It was part of the legacy his father had left him. It wasn't something John had consciously taught his son, but Dean had always picked up a lot by watching, and he'd never really taken his eyes off of his father when he was growing up.

He made his way over to the garden hose he saw coiled up on the side of the building. As he continued to describe the vamps to Bobby, he pulled the hose to the grill of the Impala, then went back to the maintenance shed, picked the padlock, and looked through the contents until he found a few rags, a bucket, and some soap.

"They were rank. Smelled like…death. Literally. And their eyes were slits."

"_Slits? Like cats?"_

"Yeah, basically," Dean agreed.

"_Okay, gimme a minute. Call ya back."_

Dean nodded instinctively, not really caring that Bobby couldn't see him. He closed his phone and stuffed it back into his jean's pocket before turning on the water and pressing his thumb over the opening of the hose to flatten the spray of the icy water. In the muted light of the security lamp that illuminated a portion of the empty back lot of the motel, he watched the water run pink from the Impala, the blood from the vampire - and some from Noah, he knew - that coated the hood loosening and washing free.

Fatigue crept up on him with ninja-like grace and he was swaying on his feet. He blinked slowly, staring with vacant eyes through the windshield of his car to the front seat within. If he unfocused his gaze, he thought he could almost see people inside. John behind the wheel, elbow up on the windowsill, fingers drifting across his mouth to try to hide an expression – amusement, fear, worry, anger – that was never far from his eyes. Sam sprawled in the passenger seat, all lanky legs and sullen scowl.

Dean sprayed the glass, trying to banish the images, but the filtered light caught the mist of water and an odd sort of prism formed, sending his mind back, recalling times past when he and Sam had been younger, living in the back seat of this car, playing with green plastic soldiers and chunky Lego blocks. So much time with his brother had been spent in and around this car. So many secrets shared here that they simply couldn't tell anyone else.

_Dean, I went all the way with Sheila McMannis..._

_Dad's been gone too long this time, Sam...  
_

_Dean, I got accepted into Stanford; you gotta help me tell Dad...  
_

_I couldn't live with you dead, Sam, I couldn't do it...  
_

_You were gone. I was here. I had to keep on fighting without you..._

_How I feel... This... inside me... I wish I couldn't feel anything, Sammy. I wish I couldn't feel a damn thing..._

Dean took a sharp breath as his memories took a decidedly left-handed turn toward a place inside of him that was filled with knives and pain, loneliness and cold...so, so cold. He pressed his thumb - the tip of it almost numb at this point - and focused the spray of the water on the windshield, willing the memories away, forcing himself to see the emptiness inside the Impala. No brother, no father. Nothing. There was _nothing_ there. And he had to be okay with that. Sam was gone and that _had to be_ okay.

He and Sam once idly talked about what they'd do if they ever left hunting. Dean had said he'd open a bar. Sam, though…he'd not been able to come up with anything. Dean wondered if his brother would return to school, finish becoming the lawyer he'd once dreamed of being, but Sam had just slowly shaken his head, an almost resigned expression in his hazel eyes.

He hoped Sam was doing something head-achingly normal right now. Waiting tables. Working at a library. Maybe driving a taxi. Something that screamed _regular life_. He wanted Sam to have found an apartment, a regular car, an identity that didn't involve insurance scams. He wanted Sam to have to pay utilities and punch a clock and buy groceries and eat fucking Lucky Charms every morning. He hoped anonymity was his brother's closest companion. Because otherwise, Dean knew, Sam would eventually come back.

And Dean wasn't sure he'd be able to turn him away, even if it was for his own good.

Dean's gaze strayed once more to the passenger seat, his mind's eye rushing through the movie reel of moments until his heart started to crinkle at the edges, making breathing difficult.

Shaking his head to clear it of the memory cobwebs, Dean blanked his mind, soaping the Impala's black metal skin and running the rags lovingly over the surface until all traces of blood - both hunter and vampire - were gone and she was gleaming with teardrops of water. Returning the bucket, rags, and hose to their respective places, Dean slid behind the wheel once more, prepared to pull the car back into a parking spot before heading to his room.

The vibration of his phone in his jeans pocket had him jerking violently in surprise.

"Jesus…!" He dug out the phone and opened it up, not bothering to say hello.

"_Nosferatu."_

"Bless you."

"_It's an ancient race of vampire, ya idjit."_

"Oh, wait," Dean frowned, his brows meeting across the bridge of his nose. "I know this. I thought it was just a fancy word for vampire."

"_Yeah, well, it is if by 'fancy word' you mean 'practically prehistoric'. It's from the Greek word nosphoros which means 'plague carrier'."_

"Can we do the language lesson later? How do I get rid of them?"

"_Same way as any other vampire. Chop off their heads."_

"Bobby, there's a lot of them. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. Who the hell knows? The ones tonight," Dean shook his head, "they were just the tip of the iceberg. You could tell – they were just the scouts. I swear they were hunting."

"_Hunting?"_

"Snatch and grab – take the body back to their…nest, or whatever, and use it to feed the rest of them."

"_Well, they're as vulnerable to fire and silver as any other vamp. Dead man's blood, wooden stake paralyzes them, I mean it's the basics. Oh wait. Here's something."_

"What?"

"_They're ground-dwellers."_

Dean rolled his neck, feeling the joints pop in quick succession, then turned the ignition. "Come again?"

"_They live below ground. The old one hibernate, burying themselves in the ground, using the newly turned ones to get them food. Or whatever. And they can live a long-ass time underground."_

"Well, that's just awesome."

Pulling into a parking spot in front of his room, Dean narrowed his eyes at the door. Something wasn't right. He shut off the car, exited, and approached the room door. _The curtain_, he realized, the hairs on the back of his neck rising in warning. The curtain covering the tiny window in the center of the door was pushed slightly aside.

Someone had been in his room.

"Bobby, I'm gonna have to call you back." He hung up once more without saying goodbye, put his phone away and drew his gun.

The door was still locked; he turned the key, twisted the handle, pushed the door open with the toe of his boot and pointed the barrel of his Colt through the opened doorway. The dark of the room was broken up by the reddish glow of the neon Vacancy sign outside and the digital clock on the nightstand within. He scanned the room quickly, then hit the light switch with his elbow, narrowing his eyes against the glare.

It was empty, everything in its place, and yet….

He kicked the door shut and locked it, then moved to his duffel bag, the zipper opened wider than he remembered, John's journal shifted from where he'd tucked it against the side. A muscle in his jaw bounced as he clenched his teeth, turning toward the table. The files on the victims that the M.E. had sent over had been shifted, obviously looked through.

"That son of a bitch," Dean muttered.

No wonder Kincade had shown up so quickly at the campus. Dead or wounded, didn't matter to Dean. This guy was about to get a piece of Dean's mind. He called the front desk.

"Yeah, this is, uh, Detective Buckner. Can you connect me to my partner's room?" He waited as the phone rang several times. When no one picked up, the hotel clerk came back on the line. "Listen, I need to get in there. We got separated and I…I think something might've happened to him. Can you just give me the room number? He wasn't able to before—Great, great, thanks so much."

Holstering his gun, Dean exited his room and made his way down several doors to the room Noah was staying in. He knocked once, not expecting an answer, then picked the lock, easing the door open, hitting the light immediately.

He saw at once that Noah wasn't there, hadn't been there recently either. No blood, no bandages, nothing indicating a severely wounded man had stumbled back to patch himself up. It was as Spartan as Dean's room, save the lack of victim files. A large backpack and a bedroll sat on the table, the denim jacket he'd seen Noah wearing at the bar draped across a chair.

Dean poked his head in the bathroom and saw that Noah had the usual toiletries stacked on the edge of the sink. It was almost eerie how much of a mirrored image this hunter's room was to his own. Mouth tense, eyes narrowed, Dean opened the backpack and begin to carefully nose around inside. Not much there aside from extra clothes, a couple books – one classic that Dean had never read but was sure Sam had, and one dog-eared paperback copy of Stephen King's _It, _which Dean was sure Sam had definitely _not_ read – a knife and a wallet.

He pulled out the wallet and thumbed through it, noting a decent amount of cash, a few credit cards in different names, and a black and white picture. Removing the picture, Dean stared at it in confusion. It was of a woman in a dark bathing suit sitting on a beach chair with her head tilted back, looking over at the camera as if it caught her by surprise, though it was obviously posed. She was beautiful – flawless skin, large dark eyes, and black hair.

It was the hair that first threw him; it was styled in the manner he'd seen in the old World War II movies. And the bathing suit was definitely old school.

"Dude carries around a picture of his mom?"

It was on the tip of his tongue to make a crack, but suddenly an image of Mary plastered itself across his memory – not pinned to the ceiling, not in the faded photograph John tucked into the corner of every mirror in every motel they ever stayed, but of his mother smiling, vibrant, happy as she had been when the djinn sent Dean into an alternate reality. If he had a picture of her from then – even if it hadn't been real – he would have kept it, too.

_Everyone has a story, Dean_. He could almost hear Sam's chiding voice talking him off his judgment ledge.

He tucked the picture back into the wallet, showing more respect than he had taking it out, then returned the wallet to the backpack. If Noah were still alive, he'd most likely want that back. Pulling his phone out once more, Dean called Bobby.

"Sorry," he offered by way of greeting. "Someone had been in my room. Went through my bag, files, all of it."

"_You still in one piece, there, Goldilocks?"_

"It was Kincade."

"_Who the hell is—"_

"The other hunter Rufus said was on this job. Noah Kincade."

There was a distinct pause on Bobby's line, long enough for Dean to take note.

"Bobby?"

"_You said…_Noah _Kincade?"_

"Yeah," Dean replied, his frown turning from one of irritation to concern. "Why?"

"_He an older guy? My age maybe?"_

"No. Early thirties. If that."

"_Well hell. Didn't know he had a kid."_

"Whoa, there. Skip back a few pages. Who had a kid?"

"_I knew a guy named Kincade. Back in 'Nam. Well, right after 'Nam. He was with Special Forces. Was a hunter before I knew what hunting was. Young guy, real serious. Hunted vamps, mainly, though I knew him to take out a werewolf or two."_

"Well, like father like son, I guess." Dean said, looking around the room one last time before he switched off the light and headed back to his room. "When did you last hear from your friend?"

"_Never said he was my friend. Said I knew him. Kincade didn't have friends. Said they were a liability. Never saw a guy more alone."_

Dean's steps faltered slightly, his breath catching in the back of his throat at Bobby's words. He had to square his shoulders against the pang of his heart before he was able to open the door to his room.

"_If you're working with him on this, tell him to find that underground nest."_

Noah's choked _follow…the nest_…rang in Dean's ears. He dropped his head back tiredly, his shoulder sagging.

"Yeah, there we might have a problem. Noah got staked by one of the vamps."

"_Damn."_ Bobby's curse seemed genuinely disquieted.

"It didn't kill him. Yet," Dean amended. "I pulled it out and was going for bandages to patch it up – he wanted to go to the hospital 'bout as much as the rest of us – and when I got back, he was gone."

"_Must not have been that bad of a wound."_

"That's just it, Bobby. It was deep, and the stake was the size of my…, well, it was big, let's just say that."

"_It couldn't have been that bad if he got up and walked away, Dean."_

"Well, I was just in his room and he ain't there, so maybe he had to hole up somewhere."

"_Your best bet is to hook up with this guy and use him. His daddy was a hunter, just like yours, and if memory serves, the Kincade I knew was raised by a hunter as well. And if they all focused on vamps, that's a damn sight better resource than any book I got for ya."_

Dean sighed, sitting heavily on the edge of his empty bed next to his seemed to give off cold. Like a whispered reminder that he was alone. Alone alone alone.

"Okay, well, I'll letcha know. If he's gone, I'm gonna need…I don't know. An underground vamp detector."

"_You sound beat, kid,"_ Bobby said gently.

"What time is it?"

"'_bout two in the morning. Here."_

"Fantastic," Dean groaned, lying back on the bed. He was starving. Dirty. Aching. Exhausted. He couldn't decide which to take care of first.

"_Get some rest. You gotta watch your back, kid. Especially without….,"_ Bobby trailed off, and Dean exhaled slowly.

_Without Sam_, his brain finished for Bobby.

"Catch you later," Dean told his friend as he closed the phone.

The quiet in the room was like another presence. He could hear himself breathing. Hear his heartbeat. Hear the steady drip of the bathroom faucet. The water running through the pipes in the room above him. The hum of the highway. His body twitched with weariness.

It wasn't _just_ that he was alone. It wasn't _just_ that he didn't have anyone to watch his back. It wasn't just that he was outnumbered and outmatched.

He missed his brother.

"Fuck," he sighed, dragging his hand down the length of his face. That kind of sentimental bullshit was going to get him exactly nowhere. Sam had left and Dean had a job to do. The plain truth of it had his body settling deeper into the bed with an imagined added weight.

He knew he should get up, get showered, check his weapons supplies, find some food. He was going to have to retrace his steps, check out the campus in the daylight, maybe talk to Ali again. But first he just wanted to lie still. Just not move for a moment.

The splash of heat across his belly jarred him, causing him to tense in anticipation, reminding him of what came next. The cold steel ran up his side with sharp intent, a low, mirthless laugh following the path until he felt breath on his throat, the laugh ghosting across his ear. He turned his face away, holding his breath against the fetid odor of his torturer. He knew what came after that laugh, knew the promises that would be whispered, the hands that would be both fire and ice against his face, and then the ripping—

"Nnn—!"

With an inarticulate cry of unadulterated fear, Dean sat up abruptly, body trembling, sweat mixing with the ash and soot clinging to his skin. He looked around, confused, disoriented.

Room, weapons, duffel. Back. _Here_. Now. Not then…not _there._

"Son of a bitch," he whispered, his voice hoarse as it skipped out of his dry throat.

He hadn't meant to fall asleep. He hadn't even realized he'd dropped off. There'd been no slow decent, no grudging anticipation of what awaited him. He'd simply fallen back into Hell.

Standing slowly, Dean groaned at the stiffness of his body, his hands still trembling as they wiped the grime from his forehead. With a slightly unsteady stagger, he made his way to his duffel, pulling out a silver flask filled with Jack Daniels from his last liquor store run. He took a hit, letting the alcohol burn down his throat, roll to fill his belly with false warmth. Exhaling, feeling like that breath could catch on fire, he took another long pull on the flask, the container lessening in weight as the liquid slid into him, uncoiling him, clearing his head, dulling his senses. He didn't really want to feel. Didn't want to feel a thing - especially not the remembered chill of metal on his skin, the fire of his flesh being parted.

Capping the flask, he dropped it back into the duffel, then, feeling slightly steadier, headed toward the bathroom and leaned against the sink to stare with heavy eyes at his reflection.

"You look like shit, Winchester," he muttered.

Stripping, he stepped into the shower, then turned on the water, letting the icy shock of the first hit of spray wake him further before the water gradually heated and worked the aches from his body. He pressed his hands against the tiled wall in front of him, hanging his head low beneath the intermittent intensity of the water sluiced down his face, collecting in a river across his bottom lip and falling in a rush toward the drain as he stood, mouth open, body thirsty for comfort.

He had no idea what time it was, but if he tried to go back to sleep at this point, he'd end up curling up on the floor, cocooned in the comforter or out in Greeley seeking the company of anyone just so that he didn't have to be alone. For a moment he considered calling for Cas, but just as quickly as the thought came, he banished it. Cas was an angel. And right now, he didn't want to be reminded of his epic destiny as a vessel for one of those guys.

The vampire soot now swirling down through the plumbing of the motel, Dean dressed in jeans and a gray T-shirt, then dug Sam's old laptop from the bottom of his duffel. He'd rarely had occasion to use it; Sam always handled the research. Liked it. Needed it.

Dean needed the action, the motion. Doing anything other than sitting still, letting thoughts creep in and gain ground.

As he powered up the machine, he noticed the worn spots on the keyboard, where Sam's palms had rested, certain keys used so much the painted-on letters were missing. When the wallpaper popped up – a blurred image of a highway, the yellow lines smeared and stretched thin – Dean swallowed. It was fitting his brother had chosen a road as his wallpaper. Nothing concrete, nothing solid. Something always moving, always leading someplace else. It was the story of their lives; it was what kept Dean in one piece and what had broken Sam apart.

Nothing about Sam being gone was _right_. None of it was _as it should be_. It was bullshit and there was jack he could do about it. Dean felt a muscle in his jaw bounce as he clenched his teeth. They were _supposed_ to do this job together. They'd been raised to do it together.

_We're better as a family, Dad, you know we are._

_I just want us to be a family again._

_Are you under the impression that family's supposed to make you feel good? They're supposed to make you miserable! That's why they're family._

Dean slammed a fist against the table. "Stop it," he ordered himself. This was getting him nowhere. He was just tired, that's all. Tired and dealing with a shitload of vampires. "Do your freaking job, man."

He would work, hunt, do the job. He would deal with the angels, keep Zachariah from turning him into a Holy Chew Toy, and stay away from Sam. Stay _away_ so that if nothing else, he kept his brother safe from Heaven's plan.

With a renewed sense of energy, and ignoring the fact that he hadn't slept since the rest he'd grabbed in the Impala after leaving Ali's house, Dean spent the next several hours researching anything he could find about _nosferatu_. How to fight them, kill them, find them. Near as he could tell, the nest could be anywhere. And they could inhabit it for years without coming above ground as long as they had a steady supply of blood. Noah had been right: he needed to follow one back to the nest.

Once there, though, he was going to need more than a machete and a clip of silver bullets. He began making a list, regretting how long it would take for him to gather it all on his own: silver pellets to melt down, dynamite or C4, fuse, wood….

"The things you can find on the internet these days," Dean commented as he eyed the blueprint for the kind of bomb he thought he would need, then wrote down the additional supplies he knew he could find at a local hardware store.

By the time his list was ready, the sun had long since heated up the curtains pulled close over the front window. He grabbed his jacket, gun, a knife for his boot, and his Bowie, leaving his clothes and computer in the room, then headed out to the Impala.

It took most of the day to gather up the items he needed to execute his plan – the explosives were the most difficult. Apparently folks in Greeley, PA, weren't too keen on blowing things up. But Dean hadn't gotten this far in life by rolling over or calling for help when he hit a roadblock. He cornered himself in the back of a diner two blocks down from The Bottleneck, grabbed a phone book, and started down the list.

"Hello there, my name is Alan Parsons. I've got a…a project outside of town and we're short some supplies for our demolition team. I was told – oh, you don't? All right then. Thanks for your time."

He turned his back to the curious passer-by who was heading to the men's room.

"Good evening, Sir. I'm looking for a demolitions expert for a building site we're scoping in the next month and I heard you might have someone…Bahamas, really? Two months. Lucky bastard."

He tossed a glare at the business man who appeared to want to use the phone when he was finished. The man stepped away.

"Yeah, listen, my boss tol' me I gotta find a dozen sticks of dy-no-mite, know what I'm sayin'? Who, my boss? Ah, yeah, that'd be Mr. Page. Yeah, listen, mister, I don't come back with this and he'll have my ass and I gotta keep this job. Dude said he'd pay whatever it cost…you do? Aw, man that's awesome. Yeah, okay, we'll be around to get it tonight."

The explosives finally secured, Dean decided to wander over to The Bottleneck. He usually wasn't one to try for a repeat performance, but even if she wasn't interested – though, how could she _not_ be, he thought – he could still do a pulse check of the community. It took all of a minute inside the bar for Dean to realize that something was off.

He made his way across the subdued room, noting the fact that fewer people were in the room, and wondered first at the time, then at the day. Bars lived and breathed for weekends. The only thing he was constantly aware of was if it was dark enough for the spooks to come out. Dates and time…that had always been Sam's department.

Leaning against the bar between two stools, he tipped his chin in the direction of the male bartender, motioning to the Sam Adams. The man set the pint in front of him and Dean nodded his thanks.

"Ali off tonight?"

The man – late forties, early fifties, puffy bags under his eyes with dark purple capillaries broken along his cheekbones, and a tired, graying mustache covering his upper lip – looked at Dean with mild surprise.

"Never showed up for work today," he answered.

Dean frowned. "That like her?"

The bartender shook his head. "Hasn't missed a day in five years."

"Anyone go check on her?" Dean inquired, trying to keep his tone mild while his blood pressure began to climb.

The bartender shook his head. "Heard she left with some pretty boy. New guy. Figured she's holed up in his love shack."

Dean frowned. It had been two nights since he walked Ali home.

"This pretty boy have a name?"

The bartender frowned at him – or at least Dean thought he did. It was hard to tell under the Yosemite Sam facial hair. "You want something from her?"

Dean lifted a shoulder. "She, uh…left with _me_ a few nights back is all."

The bartender chuckled half-heartedly. "You ain't with her now, you're wasting your time, man. Ali's a one and done type."

"My loss then." Dean gave the bartender a tight smile, then sipped his pint, his sense on high alert.

Something was wrong. It wasn't just a love nest rendezvous keeping Ali away. He glanced around the bar, noting a business man, seeing the group of middle-aged men watching a ball game, and it hit him – there wasn't anyone here under thirty.

It could be the time of day, he reasoned. Perhaps it simply wasn't late enough. Plus he had no idea what day of the week it was – maybe there was another bar the younger crowd visited. But it didn't feel right to him. He paid for his beer, then headed toward the exit, intending on picking up the explosives and then going to the campus for a stake-out.

When Noah Kincade opened the door of the bar, Dean couldn't have been more surprised if he'd been Sam stepping toward him.

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Noah, trying to adjust his vision from the security light of the outdoors to the shadows of the bar's interior, watched as the hunter's face unfolded in a blatant expression of shock, his body pulling back as if in resistance to what he was seeing, before everything slammed closed again – his eyes, his mouth, even the set of his shoulders.

Noah wasn't nearly strong enough for a confrontation; he needed to get to the motel to recoup and grab his supplies. He desperately needed sleep – without it, his body would simply shut down without his consent until it had gathered enough strength. But the ride he'd hitched was heading here, and he knew that if nothing else, Ali would take pity on him and give him some water – _God_, he needed some water – before calling him a cab to get back the motel and get his supplies.

The last person he expected to see was…_aw, hell, what was it? Colt? Remington? Winchester!_

"Winchester," he greeted, needing to validate his wavering memory.

"Dude," the hunter uttered almost breathlessly. "What the _hell_ happened to you?"

The swarm of mental pictures from the past eighteen hours waged visual assault on Noah and for a moment all he could see was the interior of the abandoned house, waking up in a pool of sweat, feeling the tender skin on his face and hands where the silver had bled from him, crawling further into the house's shadows and sleeping until his body no longer beat with its own rhythm of pain, until he could stand _almost_ without swaying, until he didn't feel like every breath was going to turn him inside out.

"I…it's a long story," Noah started, pulling the leather motorcycle jacket tighter around his bloody clothes as he remembered the sound of footfalls on leaves in the slowly dying light of day, the way he'd had to crawl to the doorway of the stone house as there were no windows, the sight of the vampire moving through the woods alone, like a zombie in search of flesh.

He'd followed it for several minutes – his weakened body moving on instinct alone – and was still reeling from the complete shock at seeing the rock formation butting up to the back of what had once been a mill of some kind, the entrance so obvious once exposed but so invisible to the naked eye, and the knowledge – the shocking, dizzying knowledge – that he'd found it.

He'd _found_ it. So many years of tracking, hunting, searching and he'd basically stumbled across it in the dark while outrunning a group of college kids.

"How's your side?" Winchester asked, quick green eyes zeroing in on the blood stains still visible on Noah's jeans.

Noah shot a glance past the hunter's shoulder. "It's…tender."

He didn't see Ali. He needed to get out of here. Rest. And he needed water. He ran his tongue across his dry bottom lip, feeling the anxious, unfamiliar sensation of _running out of time_ wrapping around his heart.

"I'll bet," Winchester muttered. "What are you doing here, man?"

"Needed to see Ali," Noah snapped, catching the kid's eyes. "Mind letting me by?"

"She's not here," Winchester replied, and Noah suddenly felt something roll off of the hunter. Anger. Worry. Fear. Pain. It was so potent that Noah almost checked him for visible wounds.

"Where is she?"

Winchester shifted his shoulders, his head tilting a bit in a challenge. "Don't know." He pressed his lips tight, then seemed to decide something. "I was about to head up to her house."

"Mind if I tag along?" Noah didn't know where the words came from. Last thing he needed was to further delay getting to the motel…a bed…his supplies…the nest.

Winchester blinked, his face exposing nothing; his eyes, though…there was something lurking there that warned Noah to be careful. He raised his hands at his sides. _I come in peace._

"Yeah, okay," Winchester replied.

He moved past Noah, stepping out into the night. Noah took a breath and followed, stopping abruptly when Winchester turned under the streetlight, facing him, the overhead light tossing ominous shadows across the younger man's face.

"What?" Noah asked, wary.

"How?"

"How…what?" Noah evaded.

"You know damn well _what_," Winchester all-but growled, his eyes hard. "I saw that wound, man. You should have bled out."

"Well," Noah lifted a shoulder, his breathing shallow, keeping his heartbeat as steady as possible, giving nothing away. _He can't find out…not yet_. "What can I say? I've always been a quick healer."

Winchester narrowed his eyes slightly. "Yeah, you and Buffy," he muttered.

"Who's Buffy?" Noah asked. "Another hunter?"

At that, the hunter's lips twitched in what Noah might've taken as a smile had the kid's eyes not been so dead. "You might say that." He turned, heading up the hill toward Ali's house, letting Noah follow or not as he chose.

Noah was weak; the walk to the road from the abandoned house took more energy than he wanted to admit. He'd been damn lucky to catch the sympathy of a passing trucker, and it had taken a supreme effort to keep the driver from noticing his blood-stained clothes. It was going to take him several more hours for his full strength to return, assuming he didn't mix it up with another pack of vamps.

"You been at this awhile," Winchester said suddenly – not so much a question as a demand to validate.

"Slow up there, Winchester," Noah called out, quick gasps for air punctuating his words. He was too winded to keep up a conversation, even on the short walk to Ali's house.

"It's Dean," the hunter corrected, turning to face him. "Just…call me Dean. And from what I hear, you're a third generation vampire hunter."

Noah stopped, forcing himself not to sway on his feet or reach out to brace himself on the chain-link fence. He blinked in mild surprise at Dean's reveal. "You've been checking up on me?"

"Pays to know who I might have to work with," Dean replied. "So, if you've got all this vast experience with these bastards, how come you haven't found their nest yet?"

_Because they sensed me…because _he's_ with them…because I want it too badly…pick a reason…._

"Look, Winch—uh, Dean," Noah corrected himself, "I don't know who you've been talking to, but they got me mixed up with someone else. My Pop worked in a factory and my granddad was a farmer. And my mom…," he shook his head once. Just…_no_. "No hunters here 'sides me."

Dean stared at him with an unreadable expression another heartbeat before turning on his heel and heading up Ali's walk. Noah hung back, watching Dean advance to her door, knock, wait, peek in a side window, then draw out a slim lock pick kit and make quick work of the door.

_Impressive, _Noah thought, tilting his head to get a better view of Dean's hands. He'd met a good many hunters through the years. Some were old and cocky, some young and stupid, but they'd all had one quality that this kid apparently lacked: arrogance. Fighting monsters and surviving on a regular basis seemed to turn people into something they weren't. It gave them egos that eventually got them killed. Dean Winchester was confident, infuriating, and angry, but he was also one of the more level-headed hunters Noah had ever encountered. And he had wicked-fast hands.

Noah watched as Dean drew his weapon before entering the house and took a minute to steady himself. The kid was right, Noah knew: he _should have_ bled out. He practically had, not that it would have mattered. It was a stupid mistake, letting that vampire get the upper hand – and it was a mistake that could have gotten him caught or killed had Dean not been there. His instinct was to berate himself for such a costly slip, but he'd been at this too long to not realize that exhaustion, distraction, and desperation created a deadly combination and he'd been battling all three since he first arrived in Greeley.

He needed sleep. And water. Lots of water. Neither of which he was going to get standing here waiting for the other hunter to check on his girlfriend. But there had been an edge to the room when Noah had stepped into the bar – a low hum of tension that hadn't been present any other time he'd been there. He knew Dean had picked up on it as well by the fact that they were leaving the bar to check on Ali - a girl that, as far as Noah knew, Dean had only met once.

Head buzzing a bit, Noah looked up at the ink-like sky dotted with pinpricks of dead light. The moon hadn't risen high enough to dampen the stars and Noah found his eyes tracking to old friends: the lazy "W" of Cassiopeia to the North, the four-square of the Big Dipper in the West….

"Hey," Dean called to him from the interior of the house. "You gonna stand out there all night?"

Noah shook himself and brought his focus back to the problem at hand. He made his way forward, the world taking on a fuzzy, distanced feeling as if he were walking through a thin cloud toward the house. He stumbled up the stairs and leaned against the opened door. He could see Dean standing in an empty kitchen staring at a dry erase calendar fastened to the front of the freezer door.

"Whatsit?" he tried. He tongue was too heavy. _God_ he needed water. And _sleep_. It was getting damned hard to think.

Dean shot a look over his shoulder. "What's the matter with you?"

"Jus' tired," Noah replied, flapping a hand in the kid's direction. "Been a long-assed day."

Dean lifted his eyebrows as if to say _welcome to my world._ "You know what day it is?"

Noah blinked, thinking. He didn't actually know. Time had long ago worn down to nothing but seasons and lunar cycles. He never really needed to know what day it was. "Uh…," he said. "Saturday?"

Dean shook his head, frowning. "Bar was too dead for a Saturday."

"Wednesday?" Noah tried. It was difficult to remember what the days of the week even were at this point.

Dean looked at him again. "You just gonna keep saying days hoping to get it right?"

Noah shrugged. He felt drunk. Or what he thought he remembered drunk feeling like. It had been a long time since—

The kid could move fast, Noah would give him that. He no more than felt his knees buckle before Dean caught him across the chest and helped him slide down the wall in a more-or-less controlled fall. The dark of the house suddenly took a breath and grew, erasing the edges of Noah's sight, crawling across Dean, and turning Noah's vision into a tunnel.

"Hey, hey, easy there, man," Dean was saying, his cold fingers tapping Noah's cheek. "No passing out. I do not want to carry your ass outta here."

Noah felt Dean's hands on him, trying to check for the wound the hunter knew to be there, trying to see how bad, but Noah pushed him away, his movements clumsy, his vision wavering. He couldn't let the kid see...not now...not _yet_.

"W-water," Noah croaked. If he could hydrate, he had a shot at getting back to the motel on his own power to sleep until his body regenerated. "Lossa water."

Dean moved away from him and Noah heard him muttering something about Ali and being sorry he was poking around in her cabinets. Then he was back and Noah smelled the water in the glass and drank until he was choking, ignoring Dean's gentle protests. He could feel it filling him up, seeking out pockets and crevasses in side of him that the curse dried out, made hollow. He finished the glass and shoved it forward, gesturing for more. He drank with his whole body, needing the liquid to soothe the ache, the pain that seemed to radiate up through him in sonic waves. Needing the hope the water gave him that he could hang on just a little longer, that he would stay _here_ and _real_ and _stable_ as long as possible. This was repeated three times before Noah's vision began to clear and he felt his balance returning.

Drinking the fourth glass slower, Noah looked at the younger hunter. Dean was watching him with evaluating eyes, seeing past whatever fragile shell cloistered Noah's heart, protected his _self_. Something about this guy unnerved Noah. He had an…an _age_ on him. Something that belied the youth of his features, something that Noah knew only someone like him could recognize. It was tucked just beneath the surface of Dean's control and it set Noah off balance.

Dean swept him with a calculating look, mouth set, face grim. Noah tried to pull his jacket close, but his hands were shaking and he realized it didn't matter. Dean had seen the dried blood that had plastered his shirt to his skin, crackling along the seams of his jeans, caking his belt. He'd seen and his expression had shifted to one Noah was beginning to fear.

This guy was the real deal: a hunter who'd seen behind the curtain. There was only so long Noah would be able to hide.

"So what is it?" Dean asked him finally, his eyes holding Noah prisoner, his whole body still as he waited for the truth.

"What's what?" Noah croaked, his voice not his own as he tried to reclaim control of his rebellious body.

Dean tipped his chin down, his sharp eyes moving from Noah's face to his blood-covered side as if to say, _you know what._

And Noah _almost_ told him.

He hadn't told a soul the truth in so long. And he'd spent so many years alone because of it. He'd kept the world at arm's length, always careful, always cautious. And he was tired...he was so _very, very_ tired. But the fourth glass of water brought more clarity and he was suddenly quite aware that he was sitting in the opened doorway of a girl's home – a girl Dean had slept with and Noah had wanted to – and he was not in a place to defend himself if the truth took this whole situation sideways on him.

"Not the time, kid," Noah sighed.

Dean opened his mouth to protest, but seemed to think better of it and looked away, a muscle bouncing in his jaw. "Tell me this," he said, glancing back, "if I work with you…if I help you get this nest…you going to gank me the minute we're done?"

_God, he sure knows something_, Noah registered with dread. "No," he replied. "No ganking."

Dean watched him another moment, then looked out through the opened door, as if watching for someone.

"Why'd you want to know what day it is?" Noah asked, suddenly curious. He had a feeling this kid rarely asked a question without a reason.

"Her calendar," Dean replied without looking back at him. "She wrote _meet Alec at Saint El_ on the 13th."

"Saint El…," Noah mused. "Saint Elizabeth's?"

Dean nodded, eyes on the night. "Maybe. But I don't think that's where she is. Or where she _still _is."

"Why?"

At that, Dean did look at him. "Mustache Man back at the bar said she didn't show up for her shift. Said it wasn't like her."

"You're thinking the vamps went back to the campus," Noah concluded. These vamps would return to the same hunting ground for as long as they could, stocking up on food enough to feed them through a forced hibernation. "They went back there and she got caught in their net."

Dean sighed, dragging a hand down his face, looking as worn out as Noah felt."These vamps, man," he started, then shook his head. "They're like the unholy love child of Godzilla and Mothra."

Noah bit the inside of his cheek, keeping himself from laughing. Strangely, he found himself agreeing with the kid's unorthodox assessment. "What's worse?" he ground out, bringing Dean's eyes back to him. "They flock. Like...birds. Or raptors."

Dean nodded. "This is not going to be easy."

_Tell me about it, _Noah sighed inwardly, sipping the last of the water from the glass clutched in his trembling hand.

"I'm gonna go look for her," Dean suddenly announced. Noah realized as soon as the kid said the words that he'd been waiting for this declaration.

"I'm going with you."

"Hell you are."

Noah felt fire lick that back of his eyes, his jaw going tight as he stared at Dean. "You don't know what these things are capable of, kid."

"I'm a fast learner," Dean retorted, pushing to his feet and reaching down for Noah's hand.

Noah allowed himself to be helped up, but had to grip the door frame for a moment as gravity exerted its formidable power. "You're not going without me."

"You're a liability," Dean told him. "I take you, we're both gonna get killed."

Noah steadied himself and pushed away from the wall, stepping into Dean's space, desperation fanning the flame of his anger, adrenaline giving him energy. "You're _not_ going without me," he repeated. He felt his heart slam against the base of his throat, imagined the other hunter could see it as his blood rushed through his veins in reaction to his sudden _need_ to be heard, understood, agreed with. "You've got no idea what I've…what I've _given up_ because of these fuckers. What they've _taken from me_."

He clenched his jaw, breathing hard through his nose to try to calm his racing heart. He almost told Dean the truth. _Almost_. "I have been looking for them for too long…. _Sacrificed_…too much. I can't _not_ be part of this." He was leaning forward, his voice low, dangerous, but he felt as if he were yelling, neck muscles straining with the impact of the words. "If this is the end of it, _I'm_ taking them out. You _get me_?"

Dean didn't move, not once throughout his whole tirade, but Noah saw something shift in his eyes, something that looked like recognition, understanding.

"Noah," Dean said, his voice gentling as if speaking to a wounded animal or frightened child. It simultaneously irritated and calmed Noah. "I'll just scout the place. Just look for Ali. I won't go _Full Metal Jacket_ on them, okay?"

Noah lifted his chin, eyes never leaving Dean's, weighing the kid's words.

"'Sides, you're dead on your feet," Dean pointed out. "Catch a few hours sleep and we can figure out the next steps together…once I know what we're dealing with." He let his mouth tip up in a grin, eyes crinkling slightly, though the humor didn't touch them. "And who knows if she even went there? Neither of us has any idea what day today is."

"You believe she went there?" Noah challenged him.

Dean paused for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah. I do."

"Me, too," Noah whispered in response.

A dread filled his gut, cold and heavy, and began to spread throughout his body. He followed Dean's eyes to the night outside the threshold of the door and worked to breathe around the knowledge that what was about to come might possibly be worse than all that he'd survived before.

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**a/n:** Thanks for reading. Next week Dean finds out just how evil ancient vampires can be. Hope to see you there!


	5. Chapter 5

**Title: **Night of the Hunter  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Author**: gaelicspirit  
**Characters:** Dean, OC, with appearances by Sam, Bobby, and Castiel  
**Disclaimer/Warning:** They're not mine. More's the pity. Title of the story comes from a 30 Seconds To Mars song of the same name. This story is definitely PG-13 and might be considered borderline R in some parts for language, violence, and one mature scene in the first chapter.

**Author's Note: **Thanks for returning. The ruckus starts with this chapter and only gets worse until the end. But…that's one of the reasons we love Supernatural: there's always something to fight, both outside and inside our heroes. Hope you enjoy!

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_Sold my soul, from heaven into hell  
Sick as my secrets, but never gonna tell  
Lock the blame, burden of my dreams  
Cause of faith in a blessing I believe_

30 Seconds to Mars, _Search and Destroy_

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**CHAPTER FIVE**

Dean couldn't figure this guy out.

Noah drank another glass of water before they left Ali's empty house. Drank it like there was a well inside him that needed to be filled. And the odd part was, Dean could see color returning to the hunter's features, see his grip on the door frame loosen as he regained his balance. Dean had been thirsty before, but nothing like this.

There were pieces of a puzzle here; Dean just couldn't fit the images together to form the whole picture of who – or what – this hunter was. He'd already eliminated vampire, remembering first how Noah had easily stood the sunlight without a blink of fatigue – not to mention his bloodlust against the species. There were spells that cursed people with immortality. Witches had been known to heal themselves.

But he'd never come across something _of_ the supernatural world hunting others _in_ the supernatural world.

They left Ali's house and started to head back down the hill toward the Impala. Noah moved easily at first, but Dean could see the hunter was quickly fatigued. The fight last night, and the untreated wound, were both wearing him down even if he did look a bit more alive than he had an hour ago.

"Where's your ride?" Dean asked glancing back at Noah.

Noah shook his head, stumbling, then recovered. "Hitched."

Dean stopped walking, turning to face the man fully. "You…hitched?"

Noah stopped, looking at Dean, confused. "Yeah. Don't have a car."

"How the hell do you not have a car?" Dean asked, incredulous. The Impala was really the only home he'd ever known. He didn't want to imagine not having her. Let alone the escape she offered.

"I just…don't," Noah replied, closing his eyes briefly as he shoved a hand out toward the chain-linked fence for balance. "Never, uh…never really needed one."

"Where do you keep your weapons?" Dean asked, genuinely curious.

Noah opened his eyes and stared at Dean, his face tense, a line between his brows turning his gaze intense. "I carry what I need."

Dean tipped his head in thought, his eyes traveling down to the dried blood on Noah's side. Seeing the path of his gaze, Noah self-consciously pulled his jacket close. Pushing away from the fence, Noah began to move past Dean, only to stumble once more on the uneven sidewalk.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Dean muttered, rotating and offering his shoulder to the weakened hunter. "I'll give you a ride. But I'm going on record as saying you're the dumbest hunter I've met yet."

The man's lanky form rivaled Sam's as he draped his arm across Dean, clearly trying to pull as much of his own weight as he could as they continued down the hill.

"How's that?" Noah asked, his voice thin, breath puffing out tiny clouds in the cool night air.

"You hunt vampires," Dean pointed out, "and you don't have back up weapons?"

"Never said I didn't have back up," Noah countered as they reached the parking lot of The Bottleneck. "Said I carry what I need."

"So then where's your back up, huh?"

Dean led Noah to the Impala, then propped him against the passenger door.

"Around," Noah said, his eyes sliding behind Dean, searching the lot, never resting on any one thing. "Storage units in different states. Coupla basements in some houses here and there."

"Lotta good that does you here," Dean grumbled, flicking the edge of Noah's leather motorcycle jacket with the back of his fingers, exposing the blood that was dried on the hunter's shirt.

"It's fine," Noah snapped, shifting slightly away.

Dean knew that he could manhandle the other hunter into submission if he wanted. Noah was sagging against the side of the Impala with all the strength of a kitten. But the hunter didn't want Dean inspecting his wound, and he hadn't felt feverish when Dean was hauling him down the hill, so Dean let it go. This guy wasn't his responsibility; if he wanted to be in pain, be weak, there wasn't much Dean could do about that.

He unlocked the door and Noah bobbed his head in a nod of thanks as he slid into the passenger seat, his face having lost much of the color it had gained back at Ali's. His breath hitched slightly as he drew his legs in and he immediately dug a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. Dean watched, expressionless, as Noah put a cigarette to his lips with a trembling hand, looking resolutely through the front window.

"Those things'll kill ya, y'know," Dean commented.

"Hardly," Noah huffed, reaching back into his pocket for a Zippo – much like the one Dean had lost several years back as he and Sam burned out the spirit of Mordechai Murdoch.

As Noah flicked the flame to the end of his cigarette, Dean noticed one difference: this Zippo wasn't silver. Nodding once in concession, Dean closed the door and moved around to the driver's side. What did he care if the guy smoked his lungs black? He didn't have anything invested in this guy. Besides, a hunter's life expectancy wasn't necessarily conducive to dying from cancer.

He slid behind the wheel, glancing to the side as Noah rolled his window down to exhale the sharp tang of smoke and then leaned back against the seat as if relaxing for the first time in months. Legs sprawled out beneath the dash, slouching sideways so that his head rested on the door frame, Noah's posture reminded Dean strongly of his brother in that moment. Anger flashed up bright in retaliation to the nostalgic pang of his heart.

"Here."

Dean handed the hunter a bottle of water he kept in the back seat of the Impala for emergencies. He watched as Noah took it and gratefully downed half the contents without stopping for breath.

_Okay, so…not a demon either_, Dean tallied in his head when the holy water hidden in the bottle did nothing to Noah except to help quench his seemingly unchecked thirst.

He started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot, gravel crunching noisily under heavy tires. Bobby had known a Noah Kincade – who had hunted vampires. But that had been over thirty years ago. The man next to him looked to be roughly the same age as Dean, give or take a year. And Noah had claimed his father was a factory worker, not a hunter. Dean mentally rolled through the various curses and spells he and Sam had encountered. There were a few that involved a need for water, some that extended life, but the memories were vague, disjointed, and unspecific.

He'd need to do more research. _Where are ya when I need ya, Sammy?_

Glancing surreptitiously at Noah, Dean couldn't help but wonder what his brother would make of the hunter. He'd probably figure out what was going on with Noah inside of a minute with some random computer algorithm. Dean thought about calling on Cas; he hadn't talked to his friend in awhile and there were things the angel had access to that could be invaluable to Dean.

But something kept Dean from alerting Castiel to his location. He just…he wasn't ready for that yet. Angels and demons…they were why he was alone right now. They were the reason his whole world had turned sideways. Vampires he could handle. Even an ancient race that smelled of death and lived underground. _That_ was normal for him. _That_ he could categorize.

They drove to the motel in silence; Dean didn't even turn on the radio. The night wind and hum of the highway through Noah's open window provided a backdrop for Dean's turbulent thoughts. Noah absentmindedly flicked the top of his Zippo in time with a rhythm only he could hear.

Dean tried to block out the repetitive _swish-shink_ of the metal-on-metal. He felt his jaw tense, the skin along his neck shuddering at the memories the sound evoked. It was such a normal sound, no reason it should call up images of blades…curved, straight, hooked, shiny, dripping with blood…

Dean rolled his neck, working to shove the flesh-crawling sensation back down into his gut where he could keep a handle on it, trying to swallow around the lump of panic inexplicably wedged at the base of his throat.

"Anyone ever tell you that you think really loud?" Noah muttered, his eyes closed, arm resting on the opened window, cigarette bouncing on his lips. He closed his fist around the gold lighter and Dean exhaled.

"That's usually my line."

Noah gave him a sideways glance but didn't pry, for which Dean was glad. He hadn't meant to expose Sam – even a half-disguised memory of him – to this hunter. It was simply that Sam was always there, with him, around him.

He didn't stop having a brother just because they were no longer in this together.

"So what's your plan, kid?" Noah asked, his eyes no longer on Dean, though his face was still turned toward him.

_Since when has having a plan actually worked out__?_ Dean couldn't help but wonder. Even with a plan, the odds of all hell breaking loose were in his favor. "I'm just going to head back to campus, ask around." He pulled into the parking lot and stopped the Impala half-way between their rooms, turning off the ignition. "Can you get inside okay?"

Noah nodded, but didn't move to get out of the car. Dean felt as if the hunter were waiting for something. He looked over, puzzled, as Noah flicked the cigarette butt out onto the parking lot then slowly rolled up the window. There was a weight to the hunter's silence, unspoken words hovering so close to the edge that Dean could almost see them hovering in the air between them. A muscle flexed in Noah's jaw and Dean held still.

"What is it, man?" Dean finally asked, drawing Noah's glance. There was a disconcertingly familiar emotion stretched across Noah's face, but Dean couldn't identify it right away. Noah's eyes looked...ancient. His whole being radiated exhaustion.

"If they've got her," Noah began, his voice soft and slightly hoarse, as if the words were roughing up the sides of his throat on their way out. "If they've got her, there's three things you gotta be ready for," he held out a steady hand and flicked out a finger as he talked, "she's one of them, she's food for them, or she's dead."

"I know," Dean replied.

Noah shook his head once. "No…no, I don't think you do."

"Dude, this ain't my first rodeo," Dean frowned, irritation at being talked down to spiking petulance in his tone. "I've killed things some hunters haven't heard of—"

"These vamps…they aren't just _things_." Noah sat forward, his hand on the door handle. He reached out a hand just shy of touching Dean's arm; the restraint reminded Dean of the lack thereof when he'd met the man the day prior. "They are destroyers. They're a plague. And there's no cure. If she's food, she's already lost. They'll have poisoned her and she'll never be the same." His eyes found Dean's and the moonlight filtering in through the windshield seemed to light them up. The frown pulling his brows close put Dean on defense, though he didn't really know why. "You gotta be ready to let her go. Before you even get there. You gotta…let her go."

"Listen. Ali's no different from the rest of them," Dean countered, mentally kicking himself for making her sound unimportant. She had a life. Friends. Ex-boyfriends who didn't bother to help her change a light bulb. "The people we try to save. I'm not looking for…vengeance. I've got a job to do." He opened his door, stuffing the bitterness of truth down deep into his gut. "It's all about the job."

He stepped out of the car, slamming his door shut with a metallic creak. He heard Noah's door echo his and made his way around the front of the car to head toward his room.

"Kid," Noah called out, stopping him mid-step. "You can act like it's all the same to you. Like none of it matters. And maybe it doesn't, how do I know? But sooner or later it's going to hurt."

Dean looked over his shoulder. _You have no idea_…. "What's your point?"

"Use it. The pain." Noah's face looked pale in the growing moon. His eyes caught the silver light and focused in on Dean with laser intensity. "Don't let it use you."

Dean frowned, nodded, then turned away, not waiting to see if the other man got into his room. There were times he wanted to pour it all out – just burden someone else with all he'd seen, all he'd survived, all he was _forced_ to carry because of some angel's fucked up view of destiny. Dean grit his teeth, forcing himself to quell the desire to unleash forty years of Hell on one guy simply because he'd made an assumption.

Taking a breath, Dean stepped into his room, closing the door firmly behind him. He had roughly thirty minutes until the supply house for the explosives closed. Figuring out the mystery surrounding Noah would have to wait – at least until this recon mission was done. He dug into his duffel bag, changed his shirt and pulled on an older canvas jacket – one Sam stopped wearing long ago, but still reminded Dean of his brother – and checked his spare clip and knife. As he was turning toward the door, he caught his own reflection in the mirror hanging above the dresser and stopped.

He looked angry. He often looked angry these days, he realized. But there was something else there. Something he'd not stopped long enough to register in quite some time. It was resignation. Acceptance of pain. Loneliness. All of the above. It was the mantle he'd taken on the moment he realized he could still lose Sam. Not to Sam quitting hunting, but to the evils in this life. It was the cloak that had settled around him when he'd kicked in the door moments after Sam had killed Lilith and helped his brother end the demonic blood source Ruby had offered. It was the realization that no matter how hard he tried, how hard he fought, he wasn't going to be enough.

And it was the same look he'd seen on Noah's face in the car moments ago.

Taking a breath, Dean lifted his chin, squared his shoulders, and forced the emotion from his eyes. He had a job to do. He opened the door once more, heading out to the Impala, thinking that he'd grab some food along the way.

He gave half a thought to calling Bobby, updating him on the hunt, on the fact that this was either a different Noah Kincade or the man had aged really, _really_ well…but he did none of those things.

He had to _own_ the fact that he was hunting alone now. That the Horsemen from Bible stories were not only real, but were ready to take down mankind. That an archangel wanted to use him to defeat Lucifer, leaving everything that made him _him_ behind in the ether. And that he and his brother had brought this all down upon themselves by breaking both the first and the last seal.

And despite all of that…despite the weight of a destiny some kid from Lawrence, Kansas, should never have been tethered to…he still had a job to do. It _was_ all the same: making the bad guy dead. It didn't really matter if the 'bad guy' was a vengeful spirit, a horde of ancient vampires, or the Devil himself.

He simply couldn't _not_ do this.

As he loaded up the two boxes of dynamite from the supply house into the trunk of the Impala, he thought about his promise to Noah – about simply scouting ahead – and reasoned that if he saw them, if he found an opening to get to the nest himself, he wouldn't wait. He wouldn't go back to get the hunter.

He'd do what he was meant to do, the only thing he was ever really good at.

"Kill 'em all," he said out loud to the night.

It was oddly liberating, driving toward the campus, everything he needed to put his plan into motion stashed in the trunk of his car, the only person with any idea of where he was headed a wounded hunter who probably wouldn't be conscious again until the fight was over. He turned up the radio, shoving a Led Zeppelin tape into the cassette player and sang loudly to _Ramble On,_ beating the flat of his fingers against the wheel as he drove.

The campus was quiet; only a few students moving from one building to another. It occurred to him that he had no clue where Ali would go to meet up with this Alec, but he figured he'd start at the only open business he saw on the quad: a coffee house. The night was cool, clear, the moon bright as it climbed higher in the sky.

Dean estimated there were roughly two more nights to full moon; despite the added light offered, he hated hunting on a full moon. Too many regulars use it as an excuse to go whacko, too many whackos were already primed to come out and play. Leaving the Impala parked in an empty lot near the chapel, he shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket and kept his eyes open.

The coffee house was apparently _the_ place to be on Saint Elizabeth's campus. The press of bodies as he stepped inside eradicated the chill he'd felt earlier. The smell of coffee beans and leather blended to give the place a mellow, earthy sense. Dean moved around the groups of kids, multiple conversations blending to become simply a backdrop of human voices, a lone guy with a guitar singing a Pearl Jam song stood in the far corner and provided the tempo for the noise.

"What can I get you?" A petite girl with short, bleached-blonde hair and a silver lip ring looked up at him from over a row of cans filled with coffee beans.

Dean scanned the large, option-peppered chalk boards behind her with unseeing eyes. The choices all looked the same to him.

"Don't suppose you've got beer?" Last thing he wanted, really, was a drink, but there were too many people in too small of a space and he was starting to feel his skin crawl.

"Dry campus," she yelled back.

"I'll have a cup of…the…uh…house blend?"

She nodded, filled a thick porcelain mug with the hot beverage and handed it over. Dean handed her a five dollar bill as he took a drink, grimacing at the bitter taste.

"Keep drinking," she said over the noise. "It gets better."

He took another sip. "Not by much," he muttered. "Hey, I'm looking for someone."

She lifted a brow, her pale eyes drifting from him to the people milling around behind him.

"She's about your height, long dark hair, tattoo on her, uh…her, right here." Dean gestured vaguely to his chest.

"Oh, yeah, that's Alec's sister. Don't know her name. She was in here with him yesterday."

"Know where she might be now?"

The girl shook her head. "Haven't seen either of them all day."

Dean nodded his thanks, took his change, and found a table to leave his mug. As he made his way toward the door, he was snagged by the sound of a tearful female voice.

"…just grabbed Alec. I didn't know what to do."

A thin, dark-haired girl, red scarf wrapped around her neck setting off olive-toned skin, was standing in the corner opposite the Pearl Jam guy. She was flanked by four people who were staring at her with intent worry.

"Did you call the cops?" asked a tall, Gothic-looking boy.

"No. I didn't know what to tell them! Especially after what happened to Wes…they didn't believe him and he had to get like fifteen stitches in his neck."

"You gotta tell someone," protested a blonde girl near her. "I mean, he's missing!"

"Right, okay, so how do you say, my boyfriend got kidnapped by monsters?"

Dean shouldered his way in to the group. "What kind of monsters?"

The girl looked up at him, tears smearing a surplus of mascara. "What?"

"That took your boyfriend," Dean pressed. "What did they look like?"

"Dude." The Goth boy protested, pushing at Dean's shoulder. "Personal space. You hear of it?"

Dean slid his eyes to the side, backing the guy off with a glance. He was _not_ in the mood to be messed with and made that clear in the set of his jaw.

"Th-they…they looked like," the girl hesitated, glancing at her friends with uncertain eyes. "Like, um, vampires."

"Was Alec's sister with him?"

The girl jerked as if she'd been slapped and went pale. For a moment Dean thought she was going to throw up or pass out. Or both.

"You okay?" One of her friends asked, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Hey, you need to sit down?"

"Alec's sister, she…," the girl stopped, then sat down on the proffered stool. "She was one of them. One of them that took him."

Dean felt something falling inside of him, sinking deep into his heels and then crawling up his spine with knives for fingers. "Son of a bitch," he muttered, angry.

_I did that to her._

He spun away from the group of kids and pushed his way out through the door and into the night. The heat of the coffee house had made him nauseous and dizzy. He needed the cold to think. Sweat beaded on his upper lip, gathering at his temples. He couldn't quite catch his breath. He'd been wrong…he'd been _wrong_ when he told Noah he knew what he'd have to do. Wrong that it was just about the job.

She wasn't just like anyone else they tried to save. She was different because he'd _used_ her. He'd used her to help himself feel better. He'd been right there with her, and he couldn't help but think he could have stopped this. The job was about saving people. And they'd got her. They _turned_ her. He hadn't protected her. Hadn't warned her. _Nothing_.

He used her and left her to die.

A dark fist of guilt and misery dug into Dean's gut, forcing him to bend and brace his hands on his knees, trying to grab air.

"Hey, mister," someone called.

Dean didn't flinch. He was too focused on breathing and formulating a plan that involved blowing up the entire vampire population of Greeley, PA.

"Mister!"

Puzzled, Dean straightened up and looked back toward the coffee house door. The young guy he'd stared down was standing sheepishly in the doorway. Dean rotated to face him.

"Maddie said she was over by the chapel," he said. "Y'know, when Alec was…grabbed. Or whatever. Thought…thought that might help."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, it does. Thanks."

"Sorry 'bout Ali, man."

Dean nodded again, then watched the kid return to his friends. For a moment he felt remorse at the way he'd stared the kid down earlier. The kid had just been looking out for his friend.

Sam was so much better at the people thing; he somehow found some piece of himself that hadn't been hardened by the way they lived their lives, that hadn't been turned cynical by all they'd seen and done and survived. Sam found a way to remember that not everyone knew there was a very real reason to fear the dark. He saw the innocence around him and he _sympathized_.

Sam was so much better at being…_human_.

Dean's world was one of action and answers. Do this, don't do that. He sometimes forgot they were people first, victims second. Sam balanced him, reminded him that it wasn't all about bullets and blood. That there was a reason the job was so important – and it wasn't just so the bad guys didn't win.

_All right, Sammy…what would you do?_

He had to find her, Dean realized. He had to end this. Noah's vendetta be damned. There were kids _dying_ in this town. Dean had seen four of them on slabs in the country morgue, their bodies emaciated and bruised; cuts, gashes, and bites turning their skin into a macabre canvass for a demented artist. He may not have fought this race of vamps before, but when it came down to it, it was like Bobby said: they died like any other vamp.

And no one deserved to be left as food for a vamp…or live an undead life against their will. Dean needed action. _Now_. He needed to hit something hard, beat his fists bloody as he railed against the images of the dead that wouldn't leave him alone. The images of innocence lost and bodies torn apart on the rack by hooks and knifes wielded by demons and monsters. Wielded by _him_.

Turning from the coffee house, Dean jogged back to the Impala, grabbed the spare duffel and filled it with the stakes, holy water, clips of silver bullets, salt, and the contents of one of the boxes of dynamite. Made for a heavy load, but he shoved his arms through the straps and balanced it on his back. Stuffing the keys into his jeans pocket, he headed toward the chapel.

Yellow crime scene tape sectioned off a piece of the path behind the chapel leading to a small gazebo. Dean's flashlight revealed a mess of footprints in the soft ground on either side of the path. He made his way to the gazebo, frowning as he shone the light along the rail. Smears of dirt along the white railing of the gazebo caught his eye…or, wait, _was_ that dirt? He drew closer, focusing the beam.

"Blood," he said softly.

Without pausing to think of the wisdom of continuing on alone, Dean swung his leg over the rail and made his way down a rather steep hill, catching himself and slowing his momentum against trees, trying to make as little noise as possible in the underbrush. His pulse quickened with anticipation as he continued forward, his gut tightening with the instinctive knowledge that he was getting close, that something was ahead. If he were right, the vamps would have scouts positioned near to where Alec had been grabbed. They hunted in packs, it seemed, and would return to the same grounds until game was no longer present.

The forest around him was quiet; the lack of animal activity or bird calls was disorienting and disturbing. His skin felt alive as he listened with his whole body, reaching out with any sort of hunter's sixth sense he'd acquired over the last two decades of living this life. He breathed shallow, pausing every so often to pull in a deep lungful of air, checking for that stench of putrescence that seemed to follow these creatures. He reached a more-or-less flat, bare part of the wooded area – could have been a creek bed at one time – and shone his light across to the rest of the trees.

When the beam of his flashlight hit her, he jerked back in surprise, nearly dropping the light.

"Hello, lover," she said, smiling. "Come back for more?"

The anger he expected to feel at finding these scouts wasn't present. Instead, he just felt sad. His shoulders sagged with the weight of it. Ali looked the same – same swirling hair, same wide mouth, same dark eyes. Just set in a face the color of death.

"I'm sorry I couldn't save you," he said quietly.

Her wry mouth twisted into an ironic smile, the mole that had turned her lips sexy twitching with her humorless laugh. She rested a hand on the trunk of the tree, cocking her hips to the side, and Dean remembered how her hands had traveled him, tugging at his clothes, eager to reach skin, seeking escape and connection with a desperation that had matched his own.

"Who says I wanted saving?" she challenged.

The hiss came from all sides, from above, and Dean tensed, reaching for the knife he'd slid into a sheath at his back. _Coming alone…damn fine idea._

It turned his stomach when Ali hissed back, answering the call.

"Guess you got through vamp orientation already, huh?" Dean muttered, soundlessly pulling the knife free of its sheath.

Her eyes flashed wickedly in the beam from his light, her face going a bit wider, turning her into someone – something – else. Something decidedly not human. "Everyone has a devil inside of them, Dean."

"Not everyone," Dean argued, simply because he wouldn't let her be right.

She slid her hand from her hip across her belly then up to her breasts, keeping her bright eyes on his. "I might've agreed with you. Yesterday. But now…after this?" Her fingers continued their journey upwards to her throat, stroking the pale skin there gently as she tipped her head back, her eyes fluttering closed. "I can't remember why I didn't want this _freedom_." She dropped her hand and pinned Dean once more with her gaze. "Until you have tasted someone's blood…you haven't really lived, Dean."

"I'm gonna kill you all, you know," Dean informed her.

She smiled again, but this time, her eyes narrowed to cat-like slits. "Not if we kill you first."

They were on him in seconds – one dropping from a branch above him in an apparent attempt to pile-drive him into the ground. His knife flew free and he felt the bag ripped from his arms and heard it hit a tree as it was tossed aside. He thrashed, bucking his body until he loosened the weight that pinned him down, then bounced to his feet, dropping into a fighting stance.

His heart slammed wildly, his eyes moving ceaselessly in the dark, trying to pinpoint the number and location of his enemy. He didn't have time to reason or plan. And he _certainly_ didn't have time to wish desperately that Sam was there, covering his six.

John Winchester had spent countless hours training his sons in combat maneuvers – cautioning them that the bad guys would never wait until they were ready, they wouldn't attack individually, it wasn't like they saw in the movies. It was chaos and motion and pain and confusion and they had to know where their bodies were at all times, how much power was behind each punch, and how much it would hurt when they connected.

Dean moved without thinking. If he paused to think about what he needed to do, he'd be dead. He hit one vamp in the throat, not taking time to register the satisfactory gurgle that followed the thrust as he rotated, ducking under another's swing while he shoved his fist into the midsection of a third. One of them caught him in a hard blow across his shoulders, sending him to his knees, and then a knee was brought up to catch him on the chin, tossing him to his back and causing him to bite into his tongue.

He rolled quickly, trying to assess how many there were besides Ali, but a blow to his right cheekbone turned the world red and sent his ears buzzing. He brought his elbow back and caught one in the sternum and grabbed another by the shoulders and brought its head down to meet his knee.

All of this was for nothing, though, if he couldn't find that knife. He'd felt it fall, clattering against the rock just…_there_!

Scrambling on hands and knees, he found the hilt of the knife, rolling to his back and bringing the blade up to meet the chest of whichever vamp was running toward him. With a guttural growl, he pushed himself to his feet, dragging the blade from the creature's chest with a wet, sucking sound, and swung it in an arc until his attacker was the kind of dead he didn't have to double check.

Before he could turn and visit the same upon the vampire's companions, though, two hit him at once knocking the knife from his grip once more and he knew he'd lost this fight. They'd wear him out, wear him down, until they killed him. _Better than the alternative_, he reasoned as he bloodied his knuckles on the skull of another vampire, dug his thumbs into the soft spot beneath the eyes of one who dove in for his neck.

A blow to the back of his head staggered him and he spun, dizzily, his vision following on a five second delay. The world was starting to tilt; he had to blink hard to balance it.

And they moved in. One slammed a fist across his face once, twice, sending his senses reeling, another crashed a fist into his gut driving the air from his lungs and causing him to gag. His head was swimming and there was blood in his eyes and suddenly he was grabbed from behind, his arms pinned with vicious strength.

Dimly, as if it was happening to someone else, he felt a vampire approaching, fangs bared.

"Enough." Ali's voice was a low, growling hiss. "He comes with us."

The one holding Dean released him abruptly and Dean staggered to the side, stumbling to his knees as his head spun, his cheek bleeding freely, the taste of old metal in his mouth. He sensed Ali moving closer, her scent different than the death and rot that surrounded him, choking him with its potency.

"You wouldn't like me, sweetheart," he panted, spitting out blood. "I don't taste like chicken."

"I can smell your blood, hunter," she all-but purred.

And suddenly he was flooded with images of Sam…sending Samhain back to Hell, detoxing in the panic room, killing Lilith…. The _smell_ of the demon's blood had sent him back, weakened his resolve; the _blood_ had made Sam quit hunting, made him leave Dean…the goddamn _blood_….

Dean growled as Ali stepped closer and put her cold fingers beneath his chin, lifting his face up, her eyes shadowed by the moon. There was enough light to see the blue of her veins tracing a path beneath her alabaster skin, making her appear at once ethereal and frightening. She gathered some of his blood in the palm of her hand, then licked it off, slowly, her lips curling into a once-sensual smile.

"You had me once. I know you're thinking of it right now. How we moved together. How great it was. " She bent low, running her tongue along the outside of his lips, causing his gut to tighten, his skin pulling away from her, flattening against his bones. "The smell of your blood turns me on."

Dean swallowed, trying to focus. "That's…really gross, actually."

Her face still close to his, Ali skimmed her breath along his unmarred cheek to his ear, whispering, "You had this body once; you can have it again." She pulled back, looking at him, lips parted slightly, eyes glittering in the moonlight.

Dean ran his tongue along his bottom lip, watching as her eyes darted to his mouth. "I've had better."

Ali's hand flashed too quick for him to register, but he felt the crack of it across his mouth, feeling his lip tear against his teeth. His world was shifting, his body thrumming with pain and shock. Ali stood, stepping away from him and Dean thought for a moment he would be allowed to get to his feet. But then he heard Ali's low hiss and his blood went cold.

He felt a rope drop over his head, a lasso settling around his neck. Grunting, he grabbed it, pulling hard and the creature on the other end landed with a satisfying _oomph_. Dean grinned, but before he could celebrate too much, another vamp grasped the end of the rope and yanked with vicious strength, the coarse fibers of the rope digging into the soft flesh of Dean's throat, cutting off his air, his eyes burning, vision dulling.

A swiftly gathering tunnel of black rolled in from either side and Dean felt himself fading quickly, aware only of the throbbing pain at this throat, the blood stinging his eye, the rocks digging into his knees, and the precious, precious air slipping away.

And then, suddenly, the rope loosened and…_relief_. He pitched forward, catching himself on his hands and knees, dragging in air, unable to think beyond _breathe…breathe…breathe…._

Not willing to give him even a moment's respite, the vamps jerked on his leash, forcing him to clamber quickly to his feet. Communicating in a disconcerting collection of hisses, they began to drag him through the woods, his feet catching on the underbrush, boots skipping and skidding along the ground as he tried to keep up. He counted six creatures, including Ali. He knew he'd left one back on the forest floor.

They didn't look at him. The one holding the end of the rope allowed just enough slack for Dean to lag before jerking it tight once more, the fibers digging into Dean's skin, the knot twisting against his windpipe. Dean tried to mark the darkened landscape with his eyes, find a path, a pattern for when he got away – if he got away – but it was too dark, the moon too disorienting, and he was in too much pain. It hummed through him, distracting him and discouraging him.

As they rounded a bend, pulling him down a small hill, Dean saw Ali in front of him.

"What happened to your brother?" Dean rasped, gripping the knot of the rope taut at his neck, trying to keep up with the vampire pulling his leash.

Ali turned to face him, the smell of death clinging to her like patchouli on a hippie. "He was given a choice."

"Lemme guess…turn or be dinner?"

Ali's smile was empty and Dean felt his stomach flip over. "A choice is more than most get."

"What about…me, huh?" Dean gasped.

"Oh, you'll be meeting him soon enough," she promised. "He can tell you all about his noble sacrifice. If he's still able to talk, that is."

As she moved away, the vampire holding Dean's tether jerked him forward. He spared a thought for Noah, begrudgingly admitting that he should have gone after the other hunter. He'd told Bobby this was too much for one hunter. He'd known; he'd just ignored.

Or maybe…he'd _wanted_ this. He wasn't made for a normal life. The life he wanted for Sam. He wasn't made for regular, for expected. He was made for action, for pain. He was made for hunting and all that came with it. He was made to die as he'd caused others to die.

And if he were really honest with himself, he deserved this. He deserved to be cut apart and bled out. The thing he never really allowed himself to confess – not even to Sam…not even when he'd told Sam about climbing down off the rack – was that he wasn't much better than the creatures they hunted.

The humanity that made him different than the monsters – the soul that set him apart – wasn't clean enough to be called _good_. Michael wanted him as a vessel not because of his soul. Not because of his humanity. Because of his blood. His flesh. The _thing_ that crawled out of that grave.

The walk through the dark woods seemed to last for hours. Dean was trembling, sweating, his muscles aching, his brain feeling as though it were pushing against the confines of his skull. The skin along his neck burned from the contact with the rope and he'd glanced off trees multiple times as the vampires – who could apparently see quite well in the dark – hauled him through the woods.

Blinking through the blood that had dried along his eyelashes, he held the knot of rope right at his throat, trying to stop it from strangling him as he attempted to keep up with the swift moving herd. His mind strayed to his father, to Elkins, to the Colt, to the night he and Sam learned that vampires weren't extinct.

_Damn, Dad, if you could see this now_…. Not only were they not extinct, but there was an ancient race and here he was with no Colt, no brother, not even a cross to hold them at bay.

They dragged him along until he lost all sense of direction, was only focused on one task.

_Keep breathing…._

Just because he might deserve to die this way didn't mean he was going to make it easy on them. Weapons or no weapons, he planned on taking as many of them out with him as he could. He just had to keep breathing long enough to do some damage.

Dean looked around, confused, vision blurring, as the herd stopped. He hadn't registered they'd broken free of the trees until that moment.

"Inside," Ali ordered.

The one holding Dean's tether hauled him through the door of what looked like a run-down mill. The high, thin light of the moon shone off a stagnant waterwheel, rotting moss and bird droppings clinging to the ruined wood. Dean choked as the rope was pulled tight again, stopping him from taking stock of his surroundings as he was jerked forward, his boots hitting the wood floor with dull _thud_s and kicking up tufts of dust as they moved across the large, open, empty room to another door.

On the other side of the doorway was a set of stairs and Dean felt his stomach knot as he realized he was being led underground to a cellar or basement. The air grew cooler as they descended the stairs and the sickly-sweet, overripe smell of decomposing bodies assaulted his nostrils, once more making him gag. He wasn't given quarter; they forced him forward, pulling him up short as they reached a third door, visible to Dean only by the waning light from above.

He felt more than saw that door open and the stench reached overwhelming proportions. He nearly went to his knees, but was stopped, ironically, by Ali. She was once more tugging at his clothes. Pulling his coat free, hauling his shirt from his shoulders. He wanted to make a comment about not really being a fan of bondage, but the rope around his neck made speech impossible.

His chest bare, he was turned, facing the cold stink of what could only be described as an underground meat locker, and he saw…Hell.

_Oh, my God…. _

Groaning, crying, alive, dead. There were so many…_so_ _many_ of them. His body locked up, his muscles tense and unresponsive. The vampire tugged at his tether, but Dean couldn't move. _Wouldn't_ move.

_I was wrong…I was so, so wrong_.

This was not a hunter's death. This was not a death he could embrace – going out fighting and bleeding, taking them out with him. This was the rack. This was his nightmares. This was all the sounds of everyday life turned backwards and inside out and attacking him from within. He couldn't fight this. He wouldn't survive this.

The vamps next to him hissed and an answering cacophony from within the Earth made Dean bite his tongue against an audible groan. He was shoved from behind and felt the cold, damp dirt beneath his hands, felt his knees sinking in, soaking up wetness he knew was more than mud. He was hauled upright once more, and he thrashed, swinging his fists wildly, kicking out until his boots made contact, desperate noises coming from him that no longer sounded human.

He was cuffed along the bloody side of his head, his body shoved roughly to the ground as something sat on him, knees pinning his arms at the elbows, the weight of the creature crushing his ribs. Dean felt one of his wrists tied and the rope at his neck tug with the motion. Then the creature climbed from his chest and Dean gasped, dragging in gulps of putrid air, trying to keep his body from giving in to the darkness that surrounded and invaded him.

He was hauled to his feet and dragged toward the sounds he'd detected when they first opened that door: a skittering, like nails across rocks and dried parchment crinkling in a fire. Lacking the strength to fight, even if he did sill have the will, he allowed them to halt him and stretch his arms above his head, causing the binding at his throat to pull tight. His other wrist was bound and he realized that to keep from choking to death, he would have to balance on the balls of his feet.

Dean felt anger welling deep within him, boiling up to the surface, sending a surge of strength through him such that he wanted to risk strangulation just to get his legs around the neck of one of these bastards and squeeze until he crushed its throat.

But then the hands on him were gone. The door was shut; the darkness complete. Complete save for the pinpricks of red eyes that blinked at him from the recesses of the room.

And then he heard the sound he knew rivaled any horror visited upon him in Hell: _sucking_. He could hear the creatures drinking, greedily feeding off the helpless bodies he'd seen tethered just like him. He thrashed wildly for a moment choking and coughing as the rope pulled tight, twisting into his damaged throat, cutting off his air.

Pushing up on his feet, he relieved the pressure of his bindings, reminding himself that he had to breathe to live long enough to take these sonsabitches out. He _had_ _to_ survive this. He had to find a way out. He'd gotten himself into this mess, he had to get himself out. He'd survived worse.

His body shook with exhaustion; blood stained and stung his eye. His head throbbed and his throat was on fire. He just had to hang on until he figured out a way to escape….

_Keep breathing._

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**a/n:** Thank you for reading! We've now reached the events depicted in the Prologue. Hope to see you back to find out what happens next!


	6. Chapter 6

**Title: **Night of the Hunter  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Author**: gaelicspirit  
**Characters:** Dean, OC, with appearances by Sam, Bobby, and Castiel  
**Disclaimer/Warning:** They're not mine. More's the pity. Title of the story comes from a 30 Seconds To Mars song of the same name. This story is definitely PG-13 and might be considered borderline R in some parts for language, violence, and one mature scene in the first chapter.

**Author's Note: **The shadow Dean saw in the prologue will now be revealed, though answers to some of your questions will have to wait until the next two chapters. It's no fun if I give you everything right now! *smile*

* * *

_Until the truth becomes a lie  
Until you change, until you deny  
Until you believe_

- 30 Seconds to Mars, _Savior_

www

**CHAPTER SIX**

The moment he opened his eyes, Noah knew something was wrong.

He was laying face-down on the rough, matted carpet of the motel room where he'd been staying, the smell of dust, mold, and cigarette smoke pressing into him. He shoved himself swiftly upright, sleep – or outright unconsciousness – having given his body the time it needed to heal. His strength returned, he felt his blood hammering through his body with a lusty rush that had him as jittery as if he'd downed five espressos.

Rubbing at his stubble-covered jaw, Noah looked around his room, getting his bearings. He was still wearing the blood-encrusted clothes from the day before. His backpack was where he'd left it, seemingly untouched, and his bed hadn't been slept in. Near as he could tell, he'd barely made it inside the motel room after the kid – Winchester – _Dean_ – had dropped him off before he passed out cold.

Holding himself completely still, Noah listened.

Water running through pipes. Muffed voices. A loose muffler pulling out of the parking lot. An owl. It was not yet dawn, he could tell. When Dean dropped him off, the near-full moon had been high in the midnight sky. The kid should be back from scouting the campus looking for Ali.

Pushing himself to his feet, a strange sort of suspicious panic kicking his heart rate up a notch, Noah grabbed for the door knob, forced to blink a few times to steady his vision. The energy thundering through him in the wake of his body healing was sending his periphery spinning into ripples that fanned out and made it necessary to spend more energy on minute tasks. He gripped the knob, jerked the door open, and stepped out into the night. The minute the night air wrapped around him, he knew he was out of luck. The black Chevy hadn't returned.

Which meant Dean had gone after them. Alone.

"God_dammit_," he growled to the darkness. He pivoted and kicked at the door frame with enough force to splinter the wood. "Son. Of. A. _Bitch._"

He'd told him. He'd fucking _told_ him not to do it. Not to go after them on his own.

Noah stomped back into the hotel room, slamming the door behind him, rattling the HVAC unit under the window. Shoving his hands through his short, dark hair, he turned in a slow circle around the room, staring sightlessly at the bland wallpaper, the untouched comforters, the dial TV, the time-worn dresser.

He'd told the kid and now…. Noah drew a shaking breath. It wasn't so much worry for Dean that had his chest constricting. It was the fact that he could practically _feel_ his chance slip through his fingers. He had been close before and he'd ruined it.

They'd picked up on his scent; his blood had betrayed him, both figuratively and literally. The only thing that had kept him sane all this time was the knowledge that he was using the curse – it wasn't using him. He was using it to exact his vengeance and end the misery that had haunted him for so long.

And now one hunter was going to fuck it up.

Noah moved fluidly to his backpack and pulled it open, stripping his motorcycle jacket and ruined shirt off and tossing them onto the bed. He grabbed a T-shirt, flannel shirt, jeans, socks, and boxers, setting them aside and tugging his belt from his waist, ignoring the blood staining the leather. He'd need to shower; even dried, the vampires would be able to smell his blood.

But then he would find Dean and—

He stopped midway through shucking his filthy jeans. Something was off. He reached into his backpack and picked up his wallet. Maggie's picture was crooked, a position he would never have left it in. It had obviously been removed and replaced.

"What the hell?"

Noah pulled her picture out carefully, holding it in the palm of his hand as gently as if he were holding her once more. It rushed at him, then. The skill and experience of the younger hunter, everything he'd taken for granted. _Of course_ the kid had been in here; it would have been obvious to him that Noah had scoped out his room first. But if he'd seen Maggie….

"What must you have thought, kid?" Noah wondered aloud, unaware that he was already thinking of Dean in past tense.

Mentally he retraced his steps to the moment he ran into Dean in the doorway of The Bottleneck. What else had he given away? Could the kid have suspected? He'd acted as if he knew something about Noah, though not entirely sure about the truth. Is that why he'd lied, gone rogue, hunted the vamps alone?

Gently stroking his thumb across Maggie's image, Noah carefully slid the picture back where it belonged and dropped the wallet into his backpack. He hurried to the shower, unsettled by the feeling of time slipping away from him. He'd gotten accustomed to having a surplus of time, he mused as he washed the blood stains from his smooth skin, scars never lingering for long. He'd been forced to watch time literally stretch out, causing the pain to linger, the memories to bend and distort and become phantoms of the moments they represented.

He tipped his head under the water, drinking it in, hoping, as he did each time, that the more he drank the longer he could delay the inevitable. The curse made him endlessly thirsty, his body captured by an insatiable disease that worked him over for weeks, coiling him from the inside out until he all-but exploded from the need it created.

It was one reason he wasn't able to get intoxicated anymore: his thirst couldn't really be satisfied. He'd searched for reasons, solutions, possibilities and the only thing he'd found was the slim likelihood of water satiating the curse. It never really worked; was really just an old wives tale.

But then again, to some, so was he.

Tucking his dog tags beneath his white T-shirt, Noah dressed quickly, grabbing a hooded sweatshirt and the denim jacket instead of the leather one as he knew the white stripes that ran along the sleeves of the leather would show up in the moonlight. He removed a few items of superfluous clothes, filled up three water bottles, and made sure his weapons were packet away.

Noah stepped outside, the burn of dawn just beginning to take a breath around him, and only then did it occur to him that Dean could have been taken by surprise, overpowered. Until that moment anger had seethed through him, the thought that he'd been betrayed much easier to accept than the thought that this brood had taken yet another hunter.

Deep down he'd suspected that Dean hadn't planned on coming back for him. He'd been too tired to pick up on the warning note of conviction that had, in retrospect, been clear in Dean's voice. Really, he wouldn't have done any differently if the tables had been turned.

Dean was a hunter. Even if he didn't have as much riding on this job as Noah did, this was still his job. And Noah hadn't given him anything other than a few angry, pleading words that might alter the hunter's natural inclination to just go after the bastards.

Pulling the last moments of night air into his lungs, Noah gave the setting moon a cursory glance and scoped out the options in the parking lot. Two pick-up trucks – probably diesel and therefore too loud to sneak away in a small lot such as this – some modern thing that probably had to be plugged in, and a motorcycle.

Noah grinned. He hadn't been on a bike in way too long.

The owner hadn't locked the wheels and it didn't take him long to dislodge the kickstand, push the bike to the road, jam the screwdriver from his Swiss Army knife into the ignition and head toward the last place he remembered as Dean's destination: Saint Elizabeth's campus. The bike rode smooth and its owner had helpfully left it with a full tank. Noah spared a quick burst of remorse for stealing it, but then the fact that the owner had made it so easy for him somehow justified the theft.

He'd had to survive way too long on way too little to feel sorry for whoever was now stranded at the White Pines motel.

It took him a moment to remember that he didn't know the true way to Saint Elizabeth's; dropping his head lower to cut down wind resistance, Noah banked left and took off through the woods to the back side of the campus. He came out just down from where Dean had parked the Chevy. Smirking in triumph, Noah parked the bike, dismounted, and peered into the car windows.

Empty. The tightness that had crept into his chest when he first woke gripped him once more and he caught his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes on the wadded up fast food bags in the back seat, map of Pennsylvania in the front. He believed what he'd told Dean about Ali: the hunter was either dead, turned, or food. And if he was food, he was as good as dead anyway.

Flipping the hood of his sweatshirt up to shield his face, Noah straightened and looked around the nearly abandoned lot. The sun's rays had begun to crest the horizon pushing the moon down below the tree line and turning the space around him a muted grey. He listened as the world woke up, breathing in the damp morning chill and marveling for a brief moment at the difference in the feel of the air between dark and light.

A security guard came around the corner, yawning and scratching his ample middle. Noah dropped, crouching behind the grill of the Chevy, eyes tracking the guard as he circled the chapel, paused and glanced toward the gazebo, shook his head and continued on. Noah looked over at the gazebo, flashes of two nights ago, of crawling away from the voices while in agony, assaulting his memory. He blinked, shook his head to dispel the clinging sensation of being pursued, then cautiously straightened up.

Hurrying forward, alert for any other security monitoring the area, Noah made his way to the brick path, ducked under the yellow crime scene tape and crept up to the gazebo. Almost immediately, his eyes caught on the smear of blood on the white railing in what looked like the shape of a hand print – too small to be Dean's, he saw. It looked like a woman's.

"Ali," Noah whispered to himself.

Instinct told him that if Dean had come this way – had seen this – he would have followed the path of disturbed underbrush into the woods. _It's what I would have done_, Noah reasoned. And Dean had even more of a vested interest in finding out Ali's fate than Noah did.

"Here goes nothing," he muttered, vaulting over the rail and following the clear path of footprints and disturbed underbrush.

He could make out the drag marks from his earlier escape, but knew they would have been impossible to see at night, even with a flashlight. Unless he'd known to look for it, Dean wouldn't have noticed anything different than the rest of the forest floor debris. Noah followed Dean's trail down the hill, his descent controlled, his body almost vibrating with energy and the need to move, attack, avenge.

He knew what tomorrow night was. Knew that was why his body was a lit fuse. Knew he had to funnel that intensity or it would overtake him, overpower him, and turn him into something he wasn't.

The evidence of a fight was clear when he reached the dry creek bed. Noah remembered falling there night before last. He dragged his hand down his now clean-shaven face remembering how the silver had seared the sensitive skin beneath his eyes on its escape from his body. There was blood everywhere – along the trunks of the trees, smeared in the dirt, scattered across the leaves. Near the base of one tree, he saw the khaki-colored outline of a duffel bag.

He started to retrieve it when his boot made contact with an oddly-shaped rock. Peering down, he kicked away some leaves and recoiled slightly at the sight of the severed head of a forty-something man.

_Not man…vampire_.

Frowning, he looked around until he saw the body. A hefty male, powerfully build.

"Nicely played, hunter," Noah said appreciatively as he toed the body.

Dean was nowhere to be found, which had to mean they'd taken him. And they had left their comrade behind, which had to mean they'd been in a hurry. He'd seen it before. They were stocking up to go to ground. They'd move the brood, feeding off the victims they'd captured as long as they could, and resurface elsewhere. He'd seen it happen twice before.

He had a few days – at the most – to wipe them out for good this time.

Noah crouched down next to the duffel and unzipped it, whistling low as he took stock of the contents. _This kid is not messing around_. He picked up one of the sticks of dynamite and regarded it solemnly.

His plan had always been rather simple: attack the nest at mid-afternoon when the vamps were the most vulnerable. Take out the sentries one by one. Then poison the food source. He'd spent years training his body to be able to silently move, fight, kill. He'd trained himself to be a weapon so that he wouldn't need to carry many. And he'd studied vampire poisons. Dead man's blood was the quickest, silver the easiest, but there was one that burned the vamps from the inside out.

A powder he'd acquired after a particularly long and lust-filled month in the French Quarter. It had been created to r_emove the monster from the human soul, _he'd been told. But once the human soul was gone, and all that was left was the monster, the powder left nothing behind. Noah had seen how quickly it worked through a group of vamps. He planned to make his way through the front of the nest until he got to their food supply, cover the bodies with the powder…then hide and watch as the ancient, bat-like creatures burned up before his eyes.

He spun the stick of dynamite around his fingers. Or, he could use this.

_They took him to feed off of_, Noah knew.

That kid would never let them turn him; he'd kill whatever made the mistake of attempting, or die trying. Noah could tell from the first conversation he'd had with Dean that he'd been trained from a very black and white viewpoint. The grey exceptions in the supernatural world didn't have a place in the life of a hunter.

Noah knew that; struggled with it every day. Maybe Dean had made a concession once or twice along the way, but when push came to shove, the vampire was the enemy just like any other supernatural creature was the enemy.

And the job Dean had talked about with such conviction was to wipe them out. _All_ of them.

Noah dropped the explosive back into the duffel bag and stood up. Grabbing the duffel, he shouldered the new load together with his backpack and headed off in the direction of the abandoned house he'd found. He didn't need to track Dean anymore; he knew where they'd taken him.

The only question was if he was going to attempt to get the kid out of there.

_This is what you've been preparing for…. _

_Taking out that nest is all that matters…. _

_You have to _end this_. It has to be _you.

He'd killed hundreds of vampires in his time as a hunter. He'd killed other creatures, too, but his focus was on vampires. One in particular. It didn't matter how many he took out to get to him. _It_.

This race was inherently evil – the bite took any goodness and decency the person had inside and burned it out. The soul was twisted, turned into something insidious. The person they had been was destroyed.

He'd seen other races of vamps that could almost pass as human, who were merciful, peaceful, even. He'd still killed them, but he'd registered the difference.

But there was no peace to be found with the _nosferatu_.

Even the newly turned became monstrous almost immediately. There was no hesitation, no latent training needs. He knew firsthand how quickly the bite eradicated any humanity, leaving only the awfulness that is inside every person.

Everyone was capable of evil, just as everyone was capable of good. The _nosferatu_ simply enhanced the evil and Noah had seen the swath of destruction even one of these creatures could create.

When they fed, their saliva poisoned the victim. It was different than when they bit someone to turn them. Near as he could tell, it was like a preservative…something to keep the victim from bleeding out too soon. But the result was always the same: it weakened the victim and turned their reality into a nightmare that burned through them like fever until it drove them mad.

He'd tried to save too many only to lose them during one horrible night of suffering unlike anything he'd ever seen. He knew Dean was gone. He had to take his own advice; he had to go in there ready to let him go.

The problem was he liked this kid.

Dean was the first hunter he'd encountered in a long time who fought evil as if he had something to fight _for_, not just because it meant he could have free reign to kill something. To wreak havoc and violence without fear of prosecution.

Noah had met too many of the other kind. The kind who were like mercenaries, cutting through the innocent to get to their intended target.

Hell, he'd _been_ the other kind once. Still was to some extent. And he hated that about himself. There'd been something about Dean that had reminded Noah of who he once was…and if things were different, could have been again.

As he dropped Dean's duffel and his backpack on the floor of the abandoned house, Noah wondered about the journal he'd seen in the hunter's duffel inside the motel room. Would anyone be looking for him? Would anyone miss him?

_Bobby Singer…._

Noah had seen that name in the journal. If it was the same Bobby Singer he'd met after 'Nam, and that Bobby Singer knew Dean, then he'd want to know what had happened to the kid. He didn't remember many people by name, but he remembered this guy. He remembered Singer's anger. His fight. It had been evident in the jungle even before Singer had known what evil _really_ looked like. And afterwards, Noah had kept enough tabs on the guy to know he'd channeled his passion for taking out the enemy into becoming a hunter.

Rubbing his face, Noah made a mental note to contact the old man and let him know that Dean had died a hero, helping eradicate a nest of ancient vampires.

The sun was bright, the heat of it burning off the early morning chill. Noah emptied some of his clothes and supplies from his backpack and transferred a few of the weapons and explosives Dean had packed in the duffel. Pulling on his slim, leather gloves, he checked the clip of his Beretta to make sure it was full of silver bullets. He positioned the wooden stakes tipped in silver so that he could grab them from his pack quickly, then slid his lighter into the front pocket of his jeans. Grabbing his machete, he spun it around the palm of his hand. The best time to attack would be afternoon, when they were all drunk on daylight and too sluggish to be at full power – all but the creatures that never left the underground.

But he was too wired to wait. And part of him wanted to put Dean out of the misery he knew the kid had to be in. The last of his supplies was the powder: he put that in the side pocket of his backpack so that he could grab it even if he couldn't get the pack off. He had enough to take out a brood twice this size – he just had to live long enough to poison the food supply.

With the explosives in his possession, though, he could spread the poison throughout the whole nest in one big-bang exodus. He wasn't sure what effect it would have on him, but Noah wasn't planning on living long after he ended this, ended him – _it_ – anyway. In fact, he welcomed it. If they _could_ kill him, he would go willingly as long as he saw the light leave that bastard's eyes first.

He'd had a plan, but now…he had explosives. Extra weapons. Ammunition he'd not brought with him this time around. All thanks to a hunter who was trapped beneath the surface – and whom Noah was prepared to leave if it meant he took out the heart of the nest.

Sweat ran down his hairline, tucking into his collar and turning his neck gritty. He flexed his fingers, tightening his fists once, twice, bouncing on the balls of his feet as if gearing up to storm a beach or take a field. This was the fight of his life; he could not fail this time.

Sprinting across the small expanse of open field to the tree line, Noah followed the path he'd taken yesterday morning when tracking the weary vamp. In less than ten minutes the old mill was in sight, the dead moss that clung to the stagnant water wheel blowing eerily in the soft wind.

Noah took a shallow breath. He couldn't smell them, not yet. But he knew once he got close, once he got inside, the stench of death would cling to those that fed and those who were being fed upon.

Before breaking the tree line, Noah closed his eyes. _For you, Maggie._

He pictured her curves, the way her hair glossed almost blue in the sunlight it was so black, the way her eyes almost disappeared when she laughed, big and loud, mouth opened wide, head tossed back. He could still remember her hands, the way her fingers traced his ear, the wry twist of her lips. He refused to picture her the last time he'd seen her. He couldn't. His mind skipped over the blood-splattered room, the gore, the slow swing of the potted plant, the stir of the curtains.

All these years, all this pain, it had started in that moment. And he'd been looking for one vampire – tearing through hundreds upon hundreds of them in his quest to find just one – for far too long.

This was it. This was the nest. And he was going to _end this_. Opening his eyes, Noah squared his shoulders, then jogged toward the mill.

There were only a handful of times Noah could remember making a choice that baffled even him. This was one of them.

Just as he reached the concealed entrance to the nest buried in a cave behind the mill, Noah stopped, turned. Rather than go through the front of the mill as had been his plan – taking out the sentries, working his way to the food storage – he gripped his machete in his left hand, his Beretta in his right, and slipped through the narrow cut of rock, turning the corner to the full entrance to the cave.

Once there, he couldn't let himself think, reassess, wonder. It was pitch inside, not one beam of sunlight breaching the entrance. One blessing of the curse, Noah mused, was excellent night vision. After a few seconds of acclimating, he could see the grey outline of the rock walls, the downturn of the natural path deeper into the earth. He followed the path for several feet. And then the smell hit him.

He stopped breathing for a moment so he wouldn't gag.

It was decay and putrescence and blood and piss and vomit. He felt despair wash over him in an almost physical wave from the victims trapped within. He stopped, bowing his head and gathering his wits before his power-tripping body propelled him forward sooner than his mind was ready to deal with what he was about to encounter.

He'd never been this close before. He had to be _ready_.

Slipping the Beretta into the back waistband of his jeans he carefully, silently lifted two sticks of dynamite from his pack, estimating how long he'd need to get out of harm's way once the fuses were lit. He'd spent a few years with a demolition team just after the war. He'd been in the mood to be destructive and as it turned out, he'd been good at it. Had a steadier hand than some of the other guys in his unit.

He pulled one fuse out until there was roughly a foot, then used the edge of the machete to cut the second fuse shorter. He knew the minute he stepped into the cave it wouldn't be just him and the victims. He knew there would be ground-dwellers crawling along the bodies, digging into the earth for their burrows, peering out with their ancient, red eyes….

_Do this…do it _now.

He never knew whose voice it was that propelled him from moments of human frailty into moments of hunter's action. His, Maggie's…it didn't matter. What mattered was the result. He was moving forward and curving around an outcropping to enter the cold underground Hell of the vampire's nest.

Without hesitation, he shoved one of the sticks of dynamite into the ground at the entrance. No one was getting out of here; not this time. He move slightly forward, readying the next stick when he heard a sharp gasp of pain, the skittering of nails against rock, and the unmistakable sound of something…_sucking_.

They were feeding.

Noah suppressed a shudder, breathing shallow as the smell he'd almost acclimated himself to suddenly spiked. A very human moan crested across his ears and he forced himself to ignore it. They were as good as dead, these victims. There was nothing he could do for them except end their suffering. Moving carefully around one body hanging by its arms, much too still to be alive, Noah started to plunge the next explosive into the ground when he heard a voice.

Raspy, rough, but very real and very close.

He held his breath, listening. Waiting.

"Get outta here."

_Oh, fuck me._ Noah's heart hit his boots, taking his stomach with it.

It was Dean.

He was alive, coherent…and _talking to him_.

Noah couldn't move. For a moment, he couldn't even _think_.

And then he heard the creatures again, a low, almost languid hiss followed by the vacuum-like sound of their mouths fixing to flesh. And Dean cried out – his scream of pain almost angry.

"Get outta here!" Dean yelled, louder, stronger this time.

Noah straightened, turning to face the sound of Dean's voice. He knew the kid was technically gone, but he was _fighting_, dammit. He was fighting and still trying to save lives. Trying to save _Noah's_ life.

_Are you going to make me watch you die, Noah?_

Dean had saved him, had helped him. Noah couldn't just leave him there. Couldn't just use him as vamp poison.

"Please…," Dean whispered.

That word snapped something inside of Noah, shattering the careful control that had kept him alive through countless hunts. He shoved the dynamite into ground, his actions enough to draw the attention of the ground-dwellers. The skittering sound stopped. The sucking sound stopped. There was a quick impression of motion and then several pairs of red eyes turned his way.

_Here goes nothing_.

Noah exhaled, flicked his lighter and turned, touching it to the long fuse of the dynamite stuck in the ground at the entrance. Moving quickly, he lit the shorter-fused dynamite and shoved it into the wall several feet from the entrance. As it sparked and sizzled, he quickly maneuvered through the bodies hanging around him – old, young, male, female, dead, alive – and closed the gap between himself and Dean.

Just as he reached the hunter – he could tell it was Dean by the ragged breathing, the reek of vampire, and the anger rolling from the hunter in physical waves – the first stick exploded, knocking Noah off his feet and sending the ground-dwellers into a frenzy of hissing pain.

The explosion caught several of the hanging bodies, sending flesh and bone against the walls and collapsing one of the rusted scaffolds from which the human food sources had been suspended. Noah looked with new horror at the hellscape around him, cursing the fact that he was able to see the mutilation and destruction. The emaciated, gray figures of the vampires caught in the blast – their faces bone-thin, fanged teeth bared, bat-like ears pressed back against their skulls – momentarily shrank from him, their cries undulating from muted whispers to screeching calls. The human victims still alive and able thrashed and screamed as the shaking of the Earth subsided.

Noah stood, reaching for Dean's bloody torso. "C'mon, kid," he gasped. "We gotta move."

One of the ancient ground-dwellers bushed past Noah, its nails dragging along the back of Noah's legs. Noah turned, bringing his machete down, hard, cutting off the creature's screech as he beheaded it. The other creatures screamed – it was the only way to define the sound. Their collective shriek sounded like a woman crying; it was pain and horror in one awful sound.

Noah rotated, looking for more creatures, feeling time speed up as his eyes searched the cloying darkness for more threats. The second stick of dynamite would go off soon and he knew it would collapse the cave entrance. There was only one way he was getting out of there and that was up through the mill. He only hoped he caused enough chaos and confusion to make it through the sentries above.

Seeing nothing coming at them, Noah reached for Dean; the hunter tensed at his touch, holding still as Noah slashed at the rope tethering his neck first, allowing his arms to drop. Dean pitched forward, his exhausted muscles no longer able to support his weight, and Noah caught him around the chest, hand slipping in the blood oozing from cuts across Dean's ribs. Just as Noah turned to take the brunt of Dean's weight, a second explosion rocked the cave followed by a rumble of falling rock that cut off the back entrance to the nest, sending both hunters to the ground.

Noah scrambled quickly to his feet, grunting as he manhandled Dean's loose-limbed bulk upright. The scream of the creatures caused Dean to cry out, instinctively pulling close to Noah in an attempt to protect his taxed system from the cacophony. Noah wanted to cover his own ears, but he had one hand gripping Dean's belt loop and the other holding his machete out like a beacon. Dean had managed to wrap an arm around Noah's waist, unable, it seemed, to raise his arm high enough to cross Noah's shoulders.

"Hang in there, kid."

"Go," Dean rasped.

Noah spared a glance at the hunter and saw that though his eyes were barely open, blood turning his features into that of a ghoulish specter, Dean was focused on the exit, expression set with determination.

Seeing the exit looming close, Noah tightened his hold on Dean, climbing the stairs and rearing back to kick the door open. The splinter of wood offered them escape and Noah hauled Dean forward, knowing they had minutes _maybe _before the vampire brood descended upon them.

The daylight would make them slow to respond, but he'd literally just rocked their world; they weren't going to stay still long. He risked a glance back down in the hole at the destroyed bodies, the hopeless souls still hanging helplessly, and refused to let himself feel anything. Not one moment of remorse, regret…there was nothing he could do for them.

There was probably nothing he could do for Dean, but something inside wouldn't let him not _try_.

"Lookout," Dean slurred, his voice destroyed by the damage the rope still wrapped around his throat had done.

Noah looked up and saw a bald, tattooed vamp descending the stairs, confusion and pain clearly etched on its face. The scream of the ground-dwellers had summoned and disoriented it. The power that surged through Noah's body controlled his motion and the vamp was relieved of its head before Noah had taken another breath.

He lost himself in the moment as he pulled Dean along, the kid stumbling next to him, head lolling, breath rasping. They managed to make it up the next set of stairs, the entrance to the basement left open by the tattooed vamp. Noah almost let himself believe they would make it out of there, slip past the slumbering vamps and out into the sunlight, until he rounded the corner from the doorway and saw six vamps blocking his exit, all looking equally pissed, and none of them the one he hunted.

Reacting instinctively, Noah backed away, pushing Dean behind him, against the far wall and standing in front of the kid like a shield, machete out in warning.

"You killed our elders," rasped a vampire who resembled Noah's first Army captain. It was disconcerting to see them appear so human. As horrifying as their monster-faces appeared, it was easier to fight and kill something that looked like _that_.

"Yeah, well, they were eating my friend, so…." Noah lifted a shoulder in a shrug as if to say, _guess we're even_.

The group in front of him hissed as one. Noah tried to keep a hand on Dean, keep him standing, and watch the vamps movement at once. It was then he noticed a familiar face in the group: Ali.

_Aw, damn,_ he groaned inwardly.

He'd told Dean to let her go, every instinct screaming that she'd been lost, but it was still tough to actually see the evil overtake what had once been such loveliness. As he watched, Ali's beautiful face shifted, broadening, turning round and animal-like. Teeth bared, she took a step forward. Behind her the rest of the creatures tilted their heads as if listening to something far away, looking every bit the animals they were.

"Wait," Noah said, drawing his last card. _There's no going back from this_. "You don't want to do this."

He felt Dean stirring behind him, but couldn't tell what the hunter was doing. He pressed him tighter against the wall with his back, hoping the kid's legs didn't give out all together.

"We are going to tear you apart," Ali hissed.

"Well," Noah hedged, "you might want to rethink that."

He thrust out his arm, shrugging the sleeve of his jacket up to expose a bit of his skin. He drew the sharpened blade of the machete across the flesh, a line of blood burbling up and following the blade, the smell of it hitting the group at once.

As he watched, they reacted first with desire, then with revulsion. His blood wasn't exactly poison to them, but it wouldn't do them any good, that much was certain. It wouldn't stop them from ripping him apart if they attacked as one – when they were at strength – but he knew it would cause them to hesitate. Ali hissed wickedly as the group drew back and away.

Just then, Noah felt Dean's hand fumbling in his front jean's pocket.

_What the fu—_

He didn't get to finish the thought as the kid found what he was looking for. Dean drew out his lighter and suddenly Noah knew what the hunter had been doing. He'd dug out a stick of dynamite from Noah's backpack.

"Dean?"

"Now," Dean choked out through his ravaged throat.

Moving like water, Noah rotated, wrapping an arm around Dean's torso as the kid tossed the lit stick of dynamite into the group of vamps. Noah hurtled him out of the room just as the stick exploded in a mess of screams, vampire blood, and crumbling wood. The room they'd been in collapsed on top of the vamps inside; Noah and Dean fell face-first into a large, empty room, dust flying around them.

Dean's coughs were wet and raspy; his body beneath Noah's shaking from shock, exhaustion, and pain. There was only so much one human body could stand and Noah was pretty sure this guy had reached his limit.

Noah knew his plans had officially changed. The moment he'd heard Dean's ragged, whispered _please_ he'd shifted from _search and destroy_ to _search and rescue_.

He didn't know where the rest of the vamps where – it was daylight; they should be tucked away in their nest waiting for night – but he was thankful for the small favors karma was granting them. He stood, pulling Dean's sagging form up next to him, gripping him tightly around the middle.

Now that he knew where the nest was, he wouldn't let them leave. These monsters weren't getting away – he wasn't going to let them escape again. But Noah had made his choice, had listened to the quiet voice of humanity that he rarely let speak anymore. And now that he had, he couldn't _not _hear it.

He needed to get the kid out of here. Then he could regroup and attack, taking the whole place out. Take out the one who'd changed everything, destroyed Noah's life. He could avenge Maggie. End this whole fucking saga. With Dean in held against him, Noah turned, blinking through the dust that clouded the open room.

And he was there. He was _right fucking there_.

Staring at him with familiar eyes. Eyes so human and right and real that the yawn of years between them erased. Time stopped and started again. It was right and wrong and Noah couldn't breathe.

All the pain, the _decades_ of pain, coalesced into this one moment and Noah wanted to cry out, wanted to cry _period_, but he couldn't remember how. He was so on edge he could feel his arches lifting from the floor even though his legs were still. There was something he knew he had to do; something that he couldn't leave _without_ doing, but his body wanted to run.

Then the eyes changed, narrowing, turning foreign and feral and wrong. And the heft of the hunter in Noah's arms returned and the years collapsed into him and his legs trembled with the weight. Dean shifted, fighting pull away from him, but Noah could only stare and stare and stare while the creatures closed in and the shadows gathered and freedom retreated.

"Hello, brother."

No. Just…_no_. This wasn't Luke. This thing wasn't his _brother_. This was a creature of the night. A manifestation of evil. A malignancy on the face of humanity.

"Oh, the way you look at me…. Like you're not just as much of a monster."

Luke's mouth twisted into an empty grin as he exposed the connection that had given Noah away every time he'd gotten close. His brother _knew _him. Knew what he was thinking. Even now, after all this time, Luke could read him as surely as if he'd heard Noah's thoughts.

"No," Noah choked out, his voice dry, raspy, aged.

"You've made my life hell, Brother," Luke growled, sounding almost petulant. He lips pressed out, his pale skin almost glowing in the anorexic beams of sunlight.

Noah felt himself tremble – from fear or anger, his mind was too muddled to discern – at Luke's words. This creature who had once been his brother, who had shared his life, who had looked up to him…who had taken _everything_ away from him. "You don't know what Hell is."

Luke's bright blue eyes – once mirrored in Noah's face – widened and stretched. Noah knew it – _he_…brother… _no_ – was about to strike. The scent of death and rot grew sharper as Luke dropped his shoulders, readying himself.

And still, Noah couldn't move.

It had all come down to this – to _killing_ this…_thing_ – and now that the moment presented itself, Noah was paralyzed by time, by memories, by blood.

By his own fucking _blood._

"I've wanted this for a long time," Luke hissed.

And then suddenly Luke jerked backwards, the look on his face one of total shock. Noah's expression mimicked it as he looked wildly to his left to see Dean standing with a Beretta in his hand – _his_ Beretta, Noah realized, the one that had been tucked into his waistband – listing to the side, covered in blood, and pulling the trigger again.

Noah looked back at the vampire that had once been Luke and watched as it fell backwards, the impact of the silver bullets not enough to kill, but certainly enough to incapacitate. As Noah watched, dumbstruck, Dean rotated and fired again, hitting another vamp, then another. He kept firing as they kept coming, his aim true, and they fell, each one, until the clip was empty and the screams of the writhing creatures around them nearly overwhelmed Noah.

He felt Dean sway against him and turned, grabbing the empty weapon and putting his shoulder against the kid's wounded midsection, lifting Dean up and over his shoulder, his body supported on the shelf the backpack offered. Noah stumbled through the melee of fallen vamps and billowing dust to the closest door. Stepping into the sun, he paused a fraction of a second to take a breath, then headed off toward the abandoned stone house, feeling Dean's weight increase as he half-ran, half-walked.

"Hang in there, kid," he pleaded. "Don't you give up on me now."

Noah's head was spinning. Luke. He'd been searching for so long, for so many years without seeing him, but it had been _Luke_. He'd known this was the right brood, but seeing him – it…_him_ – was confirmation he hadn't known he'd needed.

Luke looked the same. He looked _exactly the same_. Which, Noah reasoned, so did he, but it felt _wrong_ with Luke. He'd been so young. For twenty years, Luke's human life had been fueled on nothing but rebellion and anger and loss and then…_this_.

Dean groaned, bringing Noah back the present. He stumbled through the shattered door of the house and eased the hunter down on the dirty floor far into the shadows cast by the half-destroyed ripped off the gloves, dropping them and the backpack on the floor next to Dean as he dropped to his knees.

Dean was shivering. Shock, Noah knew. He had to hurry.

"C'mon, kid," he breathed. "You can't go all _Rambo_ and then quit on me."

"_Lethal Weapon_," Dean rasped, eyes closed, voice shaking.

"What?"

"M-more…_Lethal Weapon_…th-than _Rambo_," Dean said, his face fisting in a knot of pain.

An odd surge of relief and guilt blasted through Noah as he shrugged out of his denim jacket and covered Dean's bare chest. If the kid was coherent enough to correct him on movies references, then he wasn't beyond hope…and yet Noah had _almost _left him.

He'd almost left him to die with the others. All those others.

_Collateral damage_, his mind tried to argue as he lurched to his feet. _They were beyond help. There was nothing you could do. _

His heart hammered with pent up adrenaline and poisonous guilt and his stomach rolled with the memory of those bodies – _so many_ bodies – hanging helplessly.

"God," Noah groaned, covering his face as he sagged against the doorway, trying desperately not to get sick.

"D-did wh-what you h-had to."

Dean's ruined voice came at him from the murk of the house's shadows. Noah turned to face him, seeing the kid's denim-clad legs lying sprawled in the sunlight that filtered through the broken roof as his upper half was tucked safely in the shadow. Dean's eyes, though, were bright and glassy and stared back at Noah with a feverish intensity.

"W-woulda done the same," Dean said, absolving him, his voice shivering as violently as his body.

Noah shuddered, unsure how this kid – for he truly was a kid in Noah's eyes, despite what he might've seen, killed, survived – could know what he'd needed to hear in this moment just to get him moving again. He grabbed his backpack and pulled out several packs of special herbs, salt, and some shards of consecrated iron. Moving quickly, he created a perimeter around the house, layering the doorway with the concoction.

There was no indication they'd been followed; Noah had to work on the assumption that they'd caused enough damage the creatures would have to regroup before attacking. But he hadn't survived this long on assumptions.

He moved inside, tearing through the remnants of furniture and cabinets, covered in years of dust, bird feces, animal bones, and mold until he found some candles, a large bucket, and two heavy quilts. He hurried back to Dean and kicked away the pieces of what might have once been a chair and table to clear a space in the shadow, folding one quilt and saving the other to cover Dean. He then pulled his jacket from across Dean's chest, bent and lifted the wounded hunter so that he was lying on the quilt, not the filthy ground. Dean groaned but didn't fight him.

Next, Noah lit the candles, positioning them around the edge of the sheltered portion of the room, exposing the sweat-slicked skin and bruised countenance of the hunter. He grabbed his knife and gently cut away the rope from Dean's neck, carefully pulling it free from the raw skin beneath, wincing in sympathy at the blood and particles of flesh that clung to the coils. Then he removed the ropes at the kid's wrists. The skin there was rough and raw, but not as much as his neck. Dean weakly wrapped his arms around his body, shivering helplessly.

"You with me, kid?"

He barely registered Dean's nod.

"Have to see how bad it is," Noah said apologetically.

There were two slashes along Dean's ribs – each razor thin, not deep, but about five inches long. Pulling Dean toward him, he looked at the kid's back and saw three more cuts of similar nature there, all somewhat masked by the blood that smeared his skin. With these cuts it wasn't the blood loss that could destroy him, Noah knew, but the poison in Dean's system from the preservative in the vampire's saliva.

Turning the kid's face to the light, he saw that there were several abrasions, a deep laceration along his hairline, and bruises swollen enough to be shiny, but no bones appeared broken. He knew Dean's shoulders and wrists had to be aflame with pain, but nothing appeared dislocated. Right now, Dean's biggest problem was going to be the fever.

And Noah had lost too many to the damn fever….

"Okay, kid," Noah exhaled. "They worked you over good, but something tells me you've had worse. Still, we're gonna be in for a long night. And if you die on me, I swear to god I'm gonna kill you."

_Or something that makes more sense_, he amended in his head, but he was too busy digging through his pack to grab the powder to worry about clarity. Not to mention Dean was too far gone to be listening anyway. He found what he was looking for, then glanced back at Dean.

"I have to find water. Don't want to use the bottled stuff – we're gonna need that. It can't be far – this place had to've had a well or something. 'Specially with that mill so close."

Dean's eyes were closed tight, his chest heaving from rapid breaths, his brows drawn close. Swallowing hard, Noah grabbed the kid's hand, both heartened and dismayed when Dean gripped back tightly, his skin burning and dry.

"Breathe, Dean. Just keep breathing."

"'m trying," Dean gasped.

"I'll be right back."

Noah stood, grabbing the bucket and hurried out of the house. They still had plenty of daylight left before they had to truly on guard, but he wasn't wasting any time. Circling the house, he saw a crumbling, covered cistern and the pump affixed to it. As he ran toward the well and started pumping, he did something he hadn't done more than three times in the stretch of years since Maggie died: he prayed.

"Please let there be water…please let there be wa—"

The pump handle suddenly resisted and he felt the surge of water up the pipe and into the bucket. A wild, slightly insane laugh broke through him and he pumped until the bucket was full, shoving his face under the tapering flow of water to drink some in before hauling the water back to the house. Shrugging out of his flannel shirt, he ripped up the sleeves, using the strips of rags to carefully clean the worst of the blood from Dean's face, torso, and back, then grabbed the packet of the foul-smelling powder he'd dug from his backpack and took a breath.

"I don't know if you can hear me, kid," he started, mixing the powder with the water from the well in the hollow of his hand, "but I got this stuff from a voodoo priestess down in New Orleans…probably before you were born. It's the only thing I know that's supposed to draw this kind of poison out of your body. Problem is…it hurts like hell."

Dean rolled his eyes open as if his lids each weighed a ton. "Do it," he ordered, sounding as if he'd swallowed gravel.

"All right," Noah took a breath. "Hang onto something," he whispered, watching as Dean took him literally, fisting his bruised knuckles into the moth-eaten quilt beneath him.

He pulled the kid up against him, starting with his back. At first it didn't seem so bad, but when the salve hit the second cut, Dean let out a cry that shook through Noah's bones. The hunter's muscles locked up, bowing his spine and snapping his head back at the neck.

"Easy," Noah intoned. "Easy, easy…."

"Aw, fuck…_fuck_ that hurts," Dean gasped, his voice as strong as it had been since Noah first found him. Pain had a unique way of cutting a path of clarity.

Noah coated the third wound, holding Dean against him as the kid bucked; he realized that Dean was biting his lip to keep his cries of pain subdued, tears leaking out through his tightly shut eyes. Noah kept talking, clueless as to what he was actually saying, just keeping a low hum of words going as he wrapped the flannel shirt around Dean's back and eased him down against the quilt so that he could treat the cuts on his chest.

"Almost done, man, you're doing great, hang in there, just a little—ah, no, don't squirm away …." Noah applied the last of the salve and he felt Dean's skin heat up as the hunter kept up a litany of curses, turning the air around them blue.

"Told you it would hurt like hell," Noah said, his face folding in sympathy as he wrapped the rest of the flannel shirt around Dean's chest, then bent to remove the hunter's boots, trying to make him more comfortable.

"Hell was worse," Dean gasped, his eyes rolling wildly, as if searching for something to land on. "Sonsabitches liked their fuckin' knives."

Noah frowned. "What's that?"

Dean thrashed his head to the side, his face contorted in pain, his bruises standing out against a mixture of fading sunlight and the candles that surrounded them. Sweat matted his hair to his head and gathered his lashes in clumps. He was shivering violently from the fever and pain and while it wasn't the cleanest thing, Noah draped the remaining blanket across Dean's body, hoping to offer the hunter's weary muscles some respite from the constant clenching and shivering.

"Pulled the rack tight…dug in…liked the auger the best…liked to dig into my gut…hurt so fuckin' much…couldn't get it to stop…wouldn't stop…."

Noah stared at him, completely at a loss. Dean was talking about torture. He knew because he'd seen the results of what the kid was describing during the war.

"Easy, kid," he tried, resting his hand comfortingly on Dean's shoulder, his skin hot beneath Noah's hand. But Dean was lost to the pain and whatever memories were contorting his face into a fist of misery. "It's gonna be okay."

Dean shook his head weakly. "No…. Sammy's gone. 'S not okay…."

_Sammy?_ Noah leaned forward. "Who is Sammy, Dean?"

Dean's face folded, his lips dipping down, his closed eyes pulling together as a wave a pain shook through him. "Brother."

Noah felt his stomach drop as if someone had gut-punched him. Brother.

_We've got more in common than I realized_.

Dean shook violently for a moment, then relaxed into the quilt. Noah cupped the back of Dean's head, lifting it gently as he rested an opened water bottle against his dry, cracked lips.

"Drink, Dean," he implored. "C'mon, kid."

Dean swallowed, slowly at first, then greedily as the cool of the water wet his lips and coated his wounded throat. Noah winced as the kid stretched his neck to get more water, the angry red of the rope burns exposed to the light. He eased the water back – not wanting to choke him or make him sick – and took another piece of his now ruined flannel shirt and soaked it in the bucket of water, laying the cool cloth across Dean's wounded throat. He needed soap. Or some antibiotic salve. Something.

"They sure did a number on you."

"Sam…," Dean rasped, turning his head toward Noah's voice.

"Sam's not here, kid," Noah said, his voice heavy with regret. "I'm sorry."

Dean's brows pulled close, but he didn't turn away. Noah dragged a hand down his face, the past several hours swirling behind his eyes. Vampires, bodies, explosions…_Luke_.

And now a brother named Sam.

"S'okay, Sam…s'okay…I gotcha…," Dean mumbled, turning his face away from Noah.

"Jesus, kid," Noah choked out. "You better not die on me."

* * *

**a/n:** Thanks for reading! More to come next week as Dean fights the fever and learns the secret his rescuer has been keeping for a long time.

Also, just a sidebar: writing these characters in previous seasons is an interesting challenge. We all know where Dean's head is and why post Season 7. We all know what's to come for him after this story ends. But as I worked to climb into his head so soon after the events of "When the Levee Breaks," and "Lucifer Rising," I felt Sam's leaving in "Good God, Ya'll," would have a ripple effect that would take several days and some Winchester-esque drama for Dean to get to the headspace we see him in during "The End."

As you read the last four chapters of this story, know that I worked to ground this character's emotions and reasoning in an internal struggle we never really saw but all guessed at. I hope the way I've done it works for you.


	7. Chapter 7

**Title: **Night of the Hunter  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Author**: gaelicspirit  
**Characters:** Dean, OC, with appearances by Sam, Bobby, and Castiel  
**Disclaimer/Warning:** They're not mine. More's the pity. Title of the story comes from a 30 Seconds To Mars song of the same name. This story is definitely PG-13 and might be considered borderline R in some parts for language, violence, and one mature scene in the first chapter.

**Author's Note: **Thanks for coming back! Some revelations contained within…. These last four chapters were my favorites to write of this story. I hope you enjoy.

* * *

_To buy the truth and sell a lie  
The last mistake before you die  
So don't forget to breathe tonight  
Tonight's the last so say good-bye_

30 Seconds to Mars, _Modern Myth_

www

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

He could feel Sam in his arms; feel the weight of his brother against him. It was too heavy. It wasn't right, the way Sam just fell…just hung there. Like there was nothing holding him up except Dean. Like his heart simply wasn't in it anymore.

"It's not even that bad...it's not even that bad, alright? Sammy, Sam!"

But Sam wasn't saying anything. Wasn't saying a word. He was just resting against Dean. As if he'd gone to sleep. But he wasn't asleep. Dean could feel it…_life_…leaving him. Even as he held him tight. Even as he pressed his hand against the wound in his brother's back. Even as he _willed_ it not to be so.

He felt it leaving.

"Hey, listen to me. We are going to patch you up okay... You'll be as good as new. Huh? I'm going to take care of you! I gotcha. It's my job, right? Watch after my pain-in-the-ass little brother..."

Nothing. Not a word. A breath. A moan. Not a _who's a pain-in-the-ass_ retort. Not a _who's gonna watch out for you_ comeback. There was just weight and cold and emptiness in his arms.

"Sam...Sam... _Sam_!"

And then Sam was there, staring back at him with tears soaking his face, looking utterly destroyed but alive alive alive _alive_.

Sam would live. That made this okay. That made what was coming – and oh, _God,_ but Dean was afraid of what was coming – bearable because Sam would live. He'd saved his brother and that's all that mattered. It was the _only thing_ that mattered.

Then the clock stopped ticking.

And the Hellhounds were ripping into him.

And the pain was nothing like he'd ever felt before.

It was white-hot and bright and hard-edged and went on forever. Dean screamed and went away, closing his mind to the pain, to the reality that he was dying. He was _dying_.

Holy shit, this was _it_ and he was dying and everything he knew and fought for and wanted and loved and needed and held onto was gone…slipping away, going dark, gone.

"_Easy, Dean. Hey, don't do this, kid. You hang in there with me. I mean it, goddammit."_

_There were hands on him, holding onto him, holding him down. He felt himself shaking, the uncontrolled rebellion of his muscles tearing into his resistance, breaking down his will. He was burning...burning from the inside out, but the hands brought relief...wet on his lips, against his burning face. The hands were cold...  
_

It was cold here. Dark and cold. And those sounds, oh, fuck, those _sounds_ weren't real, were they? They weren't human. They couldn't be.

Hell. He was in _Hell_. Hell was _real_ and he was there and they were ripping him apart. Tearing him up. And laughing about it. They were laughing.

Every insult, every rebellious word he slung their way, they absorbed. They _enjoyed_. They took as viable suggestions. He thrashed against their hold. Against the hooks tearing into his skin. Against the knives cutting through his flesh. Against the heat – the unbearable heat – of their brands and iron.

"_Dean, don't! Easy, breathe…just breathe, kid. You're not being tortured. I promise. No one's gonna cut you…I won't let them. I promise. Breathe…that's it…breathe…."_

_His chest was so tight, the air a thin slipstream through his body. He bucked, trying to find more, trying to free his body from the bands of iron crushing him, pinning him down, holding him tight in the world of pain. He just wanted it to stop...everything. All of it. Just...stop. No more pain. No more burning. No more fire.  
_

He felt the searing pain of fire on his shoulder and then a nauseating jerk that led him to darkness. Complete. Whole. Suffocating. And he could taste dirt. And feel wood.

Feel. He could _feel_. Not with his soul. Not with his mind. Not with his memory. But with his hand. His arm. The skin along his back. He could _feel._

Feel, but not breathe. He was thirsty for air. It was so hot. So goddamn hot. He was tired of being hot. He needed air and water and cool…he needed it to be cool….

"_I gotcha kid. That's my hand, okay? You got that, Dean? You keep hold of that. I'm not letting you give in. I'm not letting you quit, you hear me? Not after I…. You keep breathing, you stubborn bastard. You keep breathing through this!"_

_He couldn't pull himself up, couldn't pull himself out. All he could do is not fall further into the black. There was no one in the black. The black was empty and filled with razor-sharp edges and if he fell there again, he'd be lost. Alone.  
_

Sam. Sam was here. He was back and Sam was here.

Big and strong and alive and he was crying and hugging Dean and shaking with shock and happiness and wonder and none of it mattered because he was _here_ and Sam was _here_ and there wasn't any pain or blood and ripping and knives and he was back and Sam was here.

Sam.

"_I wish I knew, kid. _God_, I wish I knew where Sam was. I would get him here in a second if that would keep you here."_

_Tired. So tired of fighting. So much work just to breathe. Just to stay. Just to keep the light bright enough to chase away the dark.  
_

Sam had a wicked right cross.

Dean should know. He taught Sam how to make a fist so the punch didn't break his thumb. Dad taught them how to fight, but Dean taught Sam how to hit. And Sam learned well.

He hit hard, too. Hard enough to ring through Dean's ears until his heart cracked. Hard enough to knock his will to the ground and stomp on it. Hard enough to send Dean spiraling back to the moment he'd held Sam against him, heavy and quiet and dead.

Hard enough to make him wonder if he'd made the right choice.

"_Whoa, whoa, hey, okay…hey, don't you do this. Dean! You can't, okay? You don't let this beat you, kid! Not this time. I won't let it. C'mon. _Come on_, kid!"_

_The heat choked him. It wrapped around his throat and gripped. He couldn't claw it off, couldn't pull it away. It was going to take him. It was going to win. And if it didn't, the cold would be waiting for him.  
_

"Thing is, the problem's not the demon blood, not really. I mean…what I did, I can't blame the blood or Ruby or...anything. The problem's me. How far I'll go. There's something in me that...scares the hell out of me, Dean."

After everything, after all of it, Sam was walking away. Sam was alive. He was alive alive _alive_ and leaving. Sam walked away to protect himself.

To protect the world. From his weakness. From his power.

Dean watched Sam walk away.

And he didn't make a deal.

And he didn't hold him tight.

And he didn't step in front of him.

And he didn't protect him.

And he didn't stop him.

He didn't stop him.

www

Dean opened his eyes, surprised to find himself staring up at stars. They were brilliant, clear, and so close he felt he could reach out and touch them. The air was crisp; he could almost _smell_ them. Smell the stars.

He thought he could make out the three stars that made up Orion's belt. Orion the Hunter. Whose exploits people will always remember because he was captured in the sky. Maybe he could be a constellation some day. Dean Winchester. The hunter. Forever commemorated in the sky.

_God…I must be drunk…._

"Not drunk," said a voice to his right. His head followed the sound in a slow turn. "Alive. But not drunk."

"D'n't think that wassout loud," Dean slurred. His tongue felt heavy, his lips almost numb. And his throat….

Someone stirred in the shadows, coming closer to him. It occurred to Dean that he should be concerned – his memories were mixed up…could be a vampire…or it could be Sam – but he simply didn't have the strength left to fight. If they wanted him, they could have him.

But it wasn't a vampire. And it wasn't Sam. It was Noah Kincade.

"Kid, after the night we've had," Noah said tiredly, slouching next to him, his face pale, drawn, and thin. "I should know what you're going to say before you do."

"Night we've…had?" Dean asked, cautiously. His body felt strange. Weightless. Completely without strength.

His shoulders were on fire, muscles stretched beyond their limit. His throat was blood-raw. His face swollen and achy, his chest and back throbbing. He literally hurt all over, but the pain felt oddly detached, as if he knew it was his but decided to set it aside for awhile and deal with it later.

"You beat the vamp poison," Noah sighed, sagging against the dirty stone wall at Dean's feet, his eyes bright in the shadows from the candles. He sounded exhausted, surprised, and oddly a little angry.

"I did?"

Noah nodded. "You did. First time for everything, I guess." He dragged a hand down his face, not looking at Dean. "Lost every one I tried to save. Every single one. They just… it was too much. The fever. The nightmares. The chaos in their mind. They couldn't take it."

Dean looked away. He'd taken that and more. And he remembered every moment of it. Every moment of pain he'd experienced, and every moment of pain he'd visited upon other souls as payment for freedom from the rack.

"Thought I lost you a couple times," Noah confessed, voice going ragged. "But you're stubborn, I'll give you that."

"What'd you…put on…me?" It had burned, he remembered.

"It's a…a salve. That's all I know. Herbs and magic and shit. Got it from a voodoo priestess who told me it would draw out the poison of the undead…," Noah rolled his bottom lip against his teeth and dropped his head back against the wall. "I wanted it for something else. This is the first time it's worked on someone they fed on, though. Most folks wouldn't have made it through that kind of a night."

Dean didn't want to hear any more about what he could survive. He knew he wouldn't reach his limit while there was still a destiny to achieve. In fact, he suspected on some level if he _did_ reach it, Zachariah would just haul his ass back out of oblivion.

"I figure that's 'cause," Noah continued, not drawing his head away from the wall, "you're not exactly _like_ most folks. Are you, Dean?"

_So you know,_ Dean thought.

"Tired," Dean said, allowing his eyes to slip closed once he was sure Noah wasn't going to kill or eat him. Either was possible lately, it seemed.

"Yeah, I'll bet," Noah conceded.

Dean forced his eyes open, peering at the other hunter. He looked like hell. Dean decided to tell him so.

"Thanks a lot," Noah grumbled. "Turns out keeping hunters alive isn't easy."

"I know," Dean sighed, his voice barely audible, even to his own ears. "Went to Hell for one."

"So I gathered," Noah said, his voice wary. "Sleep. But when you wake up, you're answering some questions."

"Makes two of us," Dean whispered before a dreamless, complete sleep claimed his wounded mind.

When he next opened his eyes, sunlight had replaced the stars. Beams of it spilled over the edge of a broken roof above his head, catching dust in its arms and filtering it down until it danced across the dirt and broken furniture shoved against the wall, out of the way. Dean breathed it in, drinking the warmth into his tired, aching body. He felt cold and stiff; like he'd been hit by a truck and left on the side of the road. He wasn't sure he could move. _Blinking_ hurt.

But his body was quick to remind him the staying still wasn't going to be an option for long. He didn't know how much water Noah had poured down his burning throat last night, but he had to pee. He slowly rolled his head to the side and saw Noah clad in only a t-shirt and jeans slouched against the opposite wall, eyes closed, mouth open, snoring softly. A bucket sat next to him; draped over the edge of the bucket were strips of what looked like a flannel shirt.

The area around them looked as if a tornado had ripped through the abandoned house. Dean wondered how much of it they'd caused, and how much was here before. He swallowed, his throat on fire, and reached up with an uncoordinated hand to gingerly touch the torn skin of his neck.

"Thirsty?"

Dean jumped, startled.

He darted his eyes over to Noah, surprised to see clear eyes staring back at him. "How long?" he tried, his throat closing up around the words. It hurt a lot worse this time around.

Noah leaned over, opened a bottle of water and tipped it to his lips, cupping the back of Dean's head and helping him slowly swallow the warmish liquid. It felt like heaven on his tortured throat. He nodded gratefully at Noah's questioning glance as the other hunter eased his head back down.

"You were in and out all night. You remember getting out of the mill?" Noah asked him.

Dean nodded. He remembered the meat locker, the cuts on his body, the mouths…he shuddered, editing that part of the movie in his mind, skipping over it and everything else around it until the dynamite.

"Brother," he rasped, unable to get anything else past his wounded throat. He had a feeling he'd said a lot more in the night, though.

Noah nodded. "Yeah, brother." He pointed at Dean. "I showed you mine. Now you show me yours."

"Mine's…not a vampire," Dean said, taking the cool strip of flannel Noah offered him and laying it across the torn skin of this throat. He couldn't remember a time when his throat hurt this bad.

"Yeah, I figured as much," Noah sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "You were pretty talkative when you didn't realize how much it hurt," he informed Dean. He dropped his hand, staring at his palm as he spoke. "Let me see if I got this straight. Your brother, Sam, died. And you…you went to _Hell_? As in…fire and brimstone Hell?"

"Made a deal," Dean rasped.

Somewhere in the back of his exhausted mind he registered that this was the first time he'd told someone who didn't already know. It felt strangely like setting down an anvil. Telling someone he'd been to Hell and back wasn't like talking about a trip to Detroit. Most people would think him crazy. But Noah wasn't most people. He was a hunter; he'd seen behind the curtain. And Dean wanted to trust someone with this weight on his shoulders. Even if they weren't able to carry it for him, he wanted _someone_ to see his burden. See his journey. In a way that Sam could never see because Dean was too afraid to show him.

"To go to Hell," Noah repeated.

"Crossroads demon."

Noah blinked at him. "You made a deal…with a _demon_…to go to Hell…to save your brother?"

Dean swallowed. Nodded. Stared at Noah.

"_Why_?" Noah's question was soft, weighted, as if he needed to know for more than just the sake of the story. He needed to know if it had been worth it.

Dean's throat was on fire – _breathing_ was tearing it up – but he searched for a way to tell this man that Sam was all he had. That Sam was everything to him, always had been. That Sam had been his responsibility since Dean could clearly form memories. His brother had been the one constant in a life of chaos. Dean had _one job_ – to keep his brother safe – and even if Sam wasn't with him _now_ he was alive…he was in the world…and that's all that mattered.

How could he find a way to share a lifetime of love and sacrifice with a virtual stranger in a way that could make him understand _why_ he'd had no choice? _Why_ he was willing living a half-life – hellish nightmares keeping him company in the dark, an aching pit where his heart tried to beat – now that he was topside? _Why_ it had been worth it?

"He's…m'brother," Dean finally said.

Noah's eyes flinched. It was the only word Dean could think to describe it. Something in the man's expression told Dean that he got it. He knew. And that knowledge caused him pain.

"How'd he take it?"

"Pissed."

"Yeah, I bet. I would be, too."

"Came back."

"What, you mean _you_ came back," Noah clarified, after a moment.

Dean nodded.

"How?"

Dean shifted his eyes away, thinking of Cas, of the hand print burn on his shoulder, of how complicated everything was now because an angel pulled him from the Pit.

"Rescued," he said simply.

"Well, no offense, but," Noah offered him a sad smile, "doesn't look like you have it much better here."

"Sam…left." Now that he'd started, he couldn't seem to stop. He felt a strange sense of bleeding out, of surrender.

Noah was quiet for a long time. Dean closed his eyes, concentrating on swallowing, hoping the saliva would sooth the swollen, torn tissue on the inside of his throat.

"You didn't want him to," Noah said finally. "But you let him."

Dean opened his eyes.

"I'm a good listener," Noah shrugged. "You learn things."

"Long story," Dean tried.

"Not that long," Noah replied. "Some people…no matter how big their hearts are…when they're hurt, or scared…they can't deal with anyone or anything else. They have to focus on themselves or they…disappear."

Dean blinked at the lanky hunter, surprised to hear the truth in those words. He wanted Sam back. Wanted him _here_. But not because _Sam_ needed to be here. Because Dean didn't want to be alone. Didn't want to be without his brother. Screw the job – he was alone. And he didn't do alone well.

But that was exactly why Sam _couldn't_ come back.

"You hurting?"

Dean nodded without thinking.

"I have aspirin, but I'm hesitant to give it to you…if you start bleeding again…."

"Have to pee." Dean confessed quietly. Having to admit it was humiliating, but there was no way he was getting up by himself. He could barely lift his arm to gingerly touch his split lip.

"Oh. Oh!" Realization turned Noah's reply comical. He pushed himself up and came over to Dean, sliding his boots back onto his feet – leaving them untied – and then easing him forward.

_Oh, holy Christ that hurts,_ Dean groaned inwardly. The cuts along his back and chest were no longer on fire, but his muscles, his ribs, his shoulders – _sonofa_bitch_, his shoulders_ – were live wires of pain.

"Can you get your feet under you?"

Dean nodded, though he honestly wasn't sure. With aching precision, he put an arm across Noah's back and leaned sideways letting Noah take his weight as he stood, wavering as he found his legs.

He felt all sorts of unbalanced. He was weak, but the need to remain tough and in control was oddly missing. When Sam was in Noah's position, Dean worked to be upright and okay as soon as possible. He had to be: Sam needed him to be. Or so Dean thought.

But there was something about having a peer – one he wasn't responsible for – that allowed Dean a level of honesty he wasn't accustomed to.

"What reeks?"

"You," Noah answered. "You smell like death."

"Awesome." Dean sighed, resigned.

Noah led Dean outside. The slight breeze that caught them when they left the protection of the house chilled Dean, telling him with more certainty than the aches stretching his body tight that he was still clinging to dredges of the fever that took him over last night. He pulled the fresh air into his lungs, taking note as Noah moved them over a line of disturbed leaves looking an awful lot like a salt ring.

Once Dean felt he was sturdy enough, one hand against a tree trunk for balance, Noah released him and stepped away so that Dean could take care of business. Dean caught the other man carrying the wooden bucket to a pump-action well and filling it up. Dean watching curiously as Noah ducked his head under the flow of water and drank as if he were Ahab.

Shaking his head at that, Dean returned to the task at hand. The woods around them were quiet, but not unnaturally so. Dean heard birds, squirrels, the usual wildlife chatter. Not the utter silence that indicated they were in a shit pile of trouble.

When Dean was done, Noah approached him with water. Dean rinsed his mouth, spitting blood from his shredded lip to the ground, then drank deeply, soothing his throat. Noah offered the bucket of well water and, between the two of them, Dean managed to wash the rest of the blood from his hair and face, soothing the rope-burned flesh of his wrists, but leaving the make-shift flannel bandage around his torso in place. He noted that the smell of vampire – or death – that had clung to him was more subdued as they made their way back into the house.

"Thanks for not taking me to a hospital," Dean said quietly as Noah helped him back inside and eased him carefully down on the quilt. It still hurt to talk, but if he spoke low and quiet, he could get more words out.

Noah huffed out a laugh. "Only a hunter would say something like that."

"Nightmare and half," Dean nodded in agreement, sinking back to rest against the wall. "Fake names and paperwork."

"Insurance scams and AMA," Noah chimed in.

"Bet you don't have to worry about all that, though," Dean tried, testing Noah for weak spots.

Noah looked away and Dean watched as a muscle worked in his jaw. Dean could tell it was going to take a bit more than a surprise confrontation with a brother who just so happened to also be a vampire to get Noah to open up to him.

"Look," Dean said finally, weariness pulling at him with hungry fingers. "We're hunters. And you don't get to pick a new career. This job…changes you."

Noah looked back at him, his blue eyes hiding secrets that Dean knew instinctively would be important to their survival.

"I, uh…," Dean started, trying to think of how to confess something to a virtual stranger he'd never really shared with his closest companion. "I made a deal to save my brother. And I don't regret it. No matter where he is now. Or why. He's alive, and that's all that matters to me. But…that's not to say I don't wish every day…_every day_," Dean had to swallow, hard, as his rough voice caught on his wounded throat, "that it had never happened. Because…I'm not the same guy I was before…before Hell."

"Don't expect anyone would be," Noah offered, sliding down the wall to once more sit opposite Dean.

"Yeah, well," Dean sighed, closing his eyes. "I don't much like the guy who got pulled out." He lay quietly for a moment, his body sinking deeper into the quilt, his throat ticking like a cooling engine. "You're taking this well," he commented to Noah, opening one eye to regard the hunter.

"Kid," Noah said solemnly, "when you've seen as much as I have…the idea that someone can literally _go to Hell _and come back isn't unbelievable."

Dean nodded, accepting that, knowing that Noah would share his secret soon enough. Something told him that neither of them had a choice in the matter. They were quiet for a minute, Dean working to swallow, Noah refreshing the cloth he held at his throat. Dean accepted the bottle of water Noah handed him gratefully, taking small sips as instructed, though he wanted to down the whole bottle and then shove his head in the bucket next to Noah.

He wasn't shivering as badly as he'd been last night, but everything felt tight and achy. He would give his left arm for a shower. A soft bed. Six ibuprofen. Coffee.

Wordlessly, Noah crawled forward and peeled back the flannel that wrapped around Dean's midsection. Looking down, Dean saw the slices on his skin were sealed, having not been very deep in the first place, but around them were odd, circular bruises like giant hickies and the salve seemed to have turned the non-sliced skin a sun-burned red. Noah's cool fingers dabbed at the cut, testing, it appeared, for infection.

"Don't think you lost too much blood," he said. "They didn't have you long enough to drink—"

"Do we have to talk about it?" Dean muttered.

It was horrifying, degrading, embarrassing. He'd been taken and used by the very things he hunted. He should have cut through them, all of them. Gone down fighting until there was nothing left of him.

"No," Noah told him. "But it's not like you did anything wro—"

"Just…don't," Dean shook his head once.

Bottom line, he had to be _better_ than that. If he was going to hunt alone, he had to be _better_. The best there was. No shocked sentiment at seeing a former lover turned into a monster. No nostalgic remorse about how it would have been had his brother been with him.

Just _kill them all_.

Noah was looking at him. Dean lifted his eyes, letting the wall down for a moment as payment for saving his life. Letting this hunter see the reflection he'd caught just before leaving to find Ali, the reflection Dean had seen stretched across Noah's face. Letting him see the pain, anger, shame, loneliness, conviction buried deep inside of him.

_This is what you saved…_this_. How d'ya like them apples_?

"Kid, I…," Noah paused, swallowed, then looked down, away. Shaking himself slightly, he covered Dean's chest with the flannel again.

"You were right, y'know," Dean whispered.

"About?"

"Ali. They...turned her." _And I couldn't stop it._

Dean skipped his eyes away from Noah's frown. The man was watching him too closely. Dean focused in on his duffel. On his weapons. On the things that were _his_ and were _real_. There was dull ache in his chest at the memory of Ali's face shifting, changing into a monster—

"You know that wasn't your fault."

Dean kept his eyes trained on the duffel.

"She wasn't your fault any more than the rest of them were," Noah continued.

Dean heard truth in his words, but didn't really _want_ to. He needed to save one. Just _one_.

"You told me," Noah said, as if the quiet between them was too heavy, "when I hauled you out of there and left the others behind…you told me you would have done the same thing."

Dean looked over at Noah, surprised. He didn't remember saying that, but it was true. If he could've only saved one, he would have done anything to make sure that one got out alive.

"Yeah," Dean rasped, swallowing. "So?"

"So…you gotta let her go. Like I told you." Noah looked down and grabbed one of the strips of flannel, wetting it with the well water. "You can't save them all. And the only way you can stop bad things from happening to them," he looked up and Dean felt the dull ache spike to a sharp pain, "is to stop the bastards doing it."

Dean nodded, but didn't reply. Eyes on the weapons bag, though not really seeing it, he touched the tip of his tongue to the wound on his lip. He was too tired to argue, too tired to try to explain to this man that Hell burned up so much of what Dean had always been able to trust inside himself.

Sometimes he felt like hypocrite when hunting.

"You don't own the corner of Guilt Street and Regret Avenue, you know."

"What?" Dean asked, meeting Noah's eyes with confusion.

The corner of Noah's mouth lifted in a sad smile. "I'm just saying…," he shrugged a shoulder, repeating the words he'd said to Dean just the day before, "use it. Don't let it use you."

Dean blinked, the bruises around his eye throbbing suddenly. Damn, he was tired.

"Listen," Noah sighed. "The wounds aren't bad. You burned through the fever last night." He flapped a hand in the direction of Dean's face. "Rest of that will heal up…just gonna take some time. You're gonna be sore as hell, and pretty weak for awhile, but you'll live."

"Thank you," Dean said, meaning it.

"Well, don't thank me yet. You may only live until it gets dark and they swarm us."

"That makes me feel much better."

Noah gave him a tired half grin, the light of it hitting his eyes, and suddenly Dean decided he liked this man. He'd not been entirely sure up to that point – even though Noah had pulled him from that meat locker, even though he'd fought alongside him, even though he'd brought him through that hellish night. Dean knew Noah was working his own agenda, and knew it was one that the hunter was fully aware could get him killed.

But agendas he could work with. He had one, too, after all.

It was emptiness that destroyed Dean. Emptiness like they'd found in Gordon Walker. Emptiness that had been present in Travis – before the rugaru ate him, that is. Emptiness Dean feared Sam was on the edge of falling into. A _nothing_ that consumed them until all that was left was death and blood and existing.

It was an emptiness Dean knew he straddled – one that Hell had dragged him into and threatened to trap him in. Dean didn't see such emptiness in Noah. He saw conviction and denial and need and pain. And to Dean, that made the man real, someone he could relate to.

"Those bullets didn't kill your brother, y'know," Dean said suddenly.

Noah's smile vanished like a cloud covering the sun. "I know."

A thought struck Dean. "You got that salve for him, didn't you? To draw out the poison of the undead, you said."

Noah sat back on his haunches, looking up through the ceiling again, for all the world appearing as though he were sniffing the air, catching a scent. Dean felt his brows pull together at the odd, animal-like posture of his companion.

"You should rest your voice," Noah said quietly. "You sound like hell."

"Noah—"

"Dean," Noah shot him a look, one that closed Dean's mouth with a clack of teeth. "You made a deal to save your brother." He pushed to his feet, eyes flinty, looking down at Dean. "I vowed to kill mine."

Dean blinked, swallowing again. It was a lot to take in. And he was so tired. All he wanted to do was curl up and sleep for a year. He closed his eyes, shutting out the cold look on the other hunter's face.

"I need to get you out of here," Noah announced, causing Dean to open his eyes and stare at him, hard.

"The hell you will."

"You're weak, you're shaking, your face is black and blue, and you look like you've been hung." Noah's eyes narrowed and he caught his lip in his teeth. He seemed agitated, jumpy. Dean watched the as the hunter began to pace in a tight four-step pattern within the clear space where they'd spent the night. "No way you can handle what's coming."

"You just said I'd live."

"Live, yes. Fight—"

Dean swallowed hard, pushing himself to his elbow. "'m stronger than I look."

Noah stopped pacing looked at him, then up through the broken roof and around again like he was listening for something. Or _to _something. His hands, Dean noticed, were twitching with pent-up energy, his thumbs tapping an irregular rhythm against the seam of his jeans. His eyes darted to the open doorway, and there was something about the general aura of alertness that reminded Dean of something…he just couldn't put his finger on it.

"I don't like it," Noah shook his head once. "I wasn't planning on you being here for this. I wasn't planning on you being here _tonight._"

Bracing himself on his elbow and fighting to keep his shoulder from visibly shaking, Dean tried to grab the hunter's attention with his words, but his voice was a crushed sound in his ears. "No offense, but I wasn't planning on you, either."

"Kid, you don't—"

"Hey," Dean cut him off, pushing up to a slouched upright position. He knew he didn't pose much of a physical threat at this point, but there was no way he was leaving Noah to this fight – no way he was leaving this fight _at all_. He let that conviction shine from his eyes. "You don't know what I can do, man. I may look like hammered shit, but I'm in this fight."

Noah stared at him for several long minutes, his entire body thrumming with energy, his eyes snapping with alert anxiety, making Dean anxious simply looking at him.

"I was sent here to do a job," Dean reminded him.

"You'd still be in that nest if I hadn't pulled you out," Noah pointed out.

Dean tilted his head in concession, then let the emotion slip from his eyes as he said, "And you'd be joining me if I hadn't shot your vamp brother to get us out of there."

Noah winced, looking away, up, out through the door. He bent suddenly and grabbed one of the water bottles, drinking greedily until the suction of his lips pulled the sides of the plastic bottle in to meet in the middle. The crackling sound of the bending plastic made Dean flinch, forcing him to look away. It was too close to the sound of nails on rock, metal on metal, a threat approaching but not yet there….

He shivered, forcing down the bile that rushed forward and burned the edge of his wounded throat. Looking back at Noah, he watched the man weigh his options. Dean didn't know where the house was in relation to the nest – though it couldn't have been far as Noah had carried him here – but he did know that it was a long way back to campus. And he was in no shape to make a walk like that. Not today.

"Fine. I'm going to get us some food," Noah said finally. "And maybe something for your throat, if I can find it. You need your strength. You can't go through what you did last night and keep going on bottled water."

_He has a point_, Dean conceded, relieved that he'd won this round. He sagged back down against the make-shift bed. "What time is it anyway?"

"It's…," Noah looked around, up through the broken roof, out through the shattered door - a series of motions that was becoming disturbingly familiar at this point, "daylight."

"Think they followed us here?" Dean asked, resisting the urge to clear his throat. He hated how weak and rough his voice sounded, but knew that action would rip his wounded tissue to shreds.

"No. They would've attacked last night if they had. But they won't stay down long. If I'm not back before dark, they'll follow the scent of your blood."

Dean nodded tiredly, almost past the point of caring. "You see a McDonalds around here or something?"

"Funny," Noah commented dryly. "Edge of campus is about six klicks north of here. Figure I can get us some supplies and be back before dark."

"You think you can run eighteen miles before sunset?"

"Kid," Noah grinned, this time reminding Dean of himself, "if I couldn't do that, my CO'd have my ass."

Noah grabbed his blood-stained, dirty denim jacket and slipped it over his T-shirt. Dean caught sight of dog tags as they bobbed against Noah's chest. They were the old-school kind, Dean realized. Not the modern-day tags that were edged in black rubber for protection. Not the kind his father had in 'Nam.

Dean frowned at that.

Digging through his back pack, Noah began handing Dean weapons. "I laid down a perimeter last night – it won't keep them out forever, but it burns them if they cross it, so it'll buy us some time. You have my Beretta and your Glock, both with silver bullets. You know that only slows them down, though."

"I know," Dean whispered, his voice finally giving way to the damage.

"Here's the machete, and the rest of the bottled water. And some clothes, if you feel up to changing."

"Hey," Dean called softly as Noah turned away, backpack slung over one shoulder.

Noah paused, looking back over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Make sure you come back," Dean told him, feeling exceedingly vulnerable slouched on a make-shift bed, wrapped in a tattered quilt, his aching arms too tired to lift the machete lying in his lap. "I…uh…. I need you to come back, okay? People… people tend to…walk out on me."

Something unreadable swept Noah's expression and for a moment Dean wished fervently that he could suck those words back in, cursing the pain and weakness that made him make such a confession. But then Noah nodded once. His almost-smile reassured Dean that he wasn't going to be left to fend off a brood of pissed-off vampires alone before he stepped through the door and out into the afternoon light.

www

They clicked. Something about them always clicked – nails, feet, knives. They rattle against surfaces that had no name outside of Hell. They announced their approach fearlessly, creating terror with noise. Noise like those he heard every day. Noises that reached in without remorse and toyed with his dreams, strumming his heart with a hammering cadence.

Dean woke with a start. Sweat made his face gritty, gathering along his upper lip like a salt ring.

He hadn't meant to fall asleep; he was alone in an abandoned stone house, situated in the middle of nowhere, roughly ten minutes from a vampire nest. Sleeping wasn't the smartest idea.

But he'd been so tired. So very, very tired. And without someone there to stay alert for or someone to talk to, he'd succumbed rather quickly to the absolute exhaustion amassed from the last several days. And Hell – his constant, faithful companion – had found him once more. He couldn't keep going like this – something was going to quit on him.

Reaching blindly for the bottle of water he knew Noah had left near the quilt, Dean drank deeply, feeling the liquid fill him up and spread through his limbs like a balm. Once sated, he shakily pushed himself upright, the damaged muscles in his shoulders shaking in protest. His stomach rolled with the change in elevation, causing him to close his eyes once more, steadying himself. The last thing he wanted was to get sick, not with his throat hurting like this.

Legs crossed at the ankles, he slouched, blinking blearily around the empty, quiet ruin of a house. The shadows had shifted; he estimated he'd been asleep for a couple hours. Long enough for dusk to come to the woods, even if the sun hadn't quite dropped to the horizon.

_This isn't good_.

Shrugging off the musty quilt, Dean unwrapped his torso, looking at the thin red lines traversing his ribs, and grateful that his skin didn't have the sensitive or stretched feeling of infection. Moving carefully, he dug through the clothes Noah had left behind, pulling on a white T-shirt and a long-sleeved, dark green Henley. The darker the better, he figured. Enough to keep him in the shadows.

He was starving; his hands were shaking from the abuse his body had sustained. But he felt better than he had even two hours ago. Rubbing his hair roughly, he rolled to his knees, then used the wall for support to gain his footing, instinctively grabbing his Glock on the way up. The quiet that surrounded the house seemed to have weight, pressing down. Dean leaned against the wall, gathering his breath, willing the vertigo away, and hoping his battered body could run fueled on adrenaline alone.

Every instinct screamed at him that something was wrong. As the shadows grew through the woods around him, the sensation climbed his spine and filled the back of his head, wrapping around him and surging through his bloodstream. The muscles along the back of his neck tightened and he pushed away from the wall.

Frowning, he took one step toward the disintegrated door and stopped cold. A shadow loomed in the doorway, the angle suggesting that the person stood several feet away from the house. Dean swallowed, chambering a round in his gun. He had no idea where Noah was, when he'd be back, but the hunter had taken the backpack with all the dynamite, leaving Dean with three weapons and a protected parameter.

Dean had learned long ago not to trust anyone unless he wasn't given a choice. He'd had to trust Noah with his life last night. But now…his suspicious nature had him wondering if this had been part of Noah's plan all along. Set Dean up as bait while he circled back to the nest and took it out, killing the rest off one by one.

_Show time_, he told himself. _Waddaya got left?_

Taking a chance, Dean broke cover, turning to face the shadow's owner, his gun pointed directly at the person's chest.

"You!" Dean exclaimed, incredulous as the unnaturally bright eyes he remembered from his pain-blind retreat out of the mill met his.

"Where is he?" Luke demanded, his young face pale in the dying light. Dean blinked, surprised at how much this vampire resembled his brother. Same squared jaw. Same blue eyes. Luke's hair was longer, but there was no mistaking the family resemblance.

"He's not here," Dean told him. "So…you can just…go now."

Luke smiled, the motion automatic and cold. "I don't think we'll be doing that."

_Oh, shit…_we_?_

Dean heard the sound of rustling to his left and shot his eyes around Luke, but saw nothing. Adrenalin giving him energy, Dean darted to the side and grabbed Noah's machete, then resumed his position in the doorway, gun pointed at Luke. Luke hadn't moved.

"Listen, this is between you and Noah, so—"

"You're in this now, hunter," Luke interrupted. "You didn't just trip over us."

Dean lifted a shoulder. "Yeah, well…," he conceded. "You were killing people."

"Hunting. Same as you."

"No," Dean snapped, his voice hard. He shook his head once. "Nothing like me."

"Humans hunt to survive. To eat."

"Yeah, _animals_," Dean protested.

"Food source," Luke countered, red lips tipping upward in a confident grin, exposing partially distended fangs.

"I could argue semantics with you all day, dude," Dean replied calmly. "Fact is, you ain't drinking another human."

"I wouldn't bet on that," Luke said and then was gone. He moved so fast, Dean did a double take.

The shadows were gathering telling Dean that the sun was falling fast and soon the woods would be thick with night, the only source of light the pale reflection of the full moon. Dean stepped away from the door, eyes darting around the unprotected areas of the crumbling house. The parameter of protection Noah had left behind seemed to be working, but there was a lot of noise and movement outside the house.

"Come on out, hunter!"

He heard a smattering of laughter follow the taunting cry and he turned one way, then another, trying to see all around him at once.

"I want to taste you."

Dean rolled his eyes, pressing the flat of the gun's barrel against his forehead as he shook his head. This was not good. This was _so_ not good. He waited, listening to the rustling, the murmurs, the quiet planning happening around him. He checked the clip of his Glock, and he waited. There was nothing else he could do.

Either Noah would return and blow everyone to hell, or they would break the perimeter and attack him.

Either way, Dean was in no condition to make a run for it. He could barely make three steps without his legs trembling. He could take out a few with the silver bullets, but they'd just regroup and find him. They had a taste of his blood now; they had his scent. They'd find him anywhere.

"Heeeeere, hunter," one called. "Let me see that pretty face."

"Screw that; I want to see his pretty ass."

A smattering of laughter followed the cat-call and Dean peered out of the doorway. "Really? That's what you're going with?"

"Oh, he's a feisty one."

"I like it when they fight."

"No wonder you assholes are ground-dwellers," Dean called back.

They laughed and he leaned back against wall, crossing his arms over his sore chest, trying to ignore the muscle-fatigue that was causing his hands to shake from holding the weight of the weapons so long. Then a sound that made his blood freeze pulled his gaze upward. A vampire shimmied up the trunk of a nearby tree like a spider monkey and peered down at him through the destroyed roof.

_Son of a bitch_, Dean thought. Noah hadn't protected the roof. _Of course not…because who would have thought these bastards could fly?_

Dean raised his weapons, taking aim. As the vamp launched itself from the tree, he fired, his bullet tearing across the creature's arm and causing it to scream in pain, the others around the house and in the woods answering the call with anger, their voices echoing in the dying light. The vamp Dean shot dropped to a crouch in front of him, raising narrowed eyes, its animal-like face marble in the rising moonlight, its teeth razors in a black mouth.

It hissed and Dean fired, hitting it square in the chest. As the creature fell back, he swung the machete, lopping off the head in a spray of gore. Dean's shoulder cried out, strumming a chord of pain deep in his gut, causing him to stumble, but the vamp was dead, and that's what mattered. Shoving the Glock in his jeans, he grabbed the head by its black, oily hair and threw it out of the opened door.

"Anyone else?" He yelled, a warm feeling of satisfaction setting in his heart at the keening sound of their group pain. "I'll take you out one by one if I have to!"

"You won't last forever, hunter," one called.

"I wouldn't bet on that," he said, throwing Luke's words back at them. "I've survived worse," he whispered. "I survived _Hell_, you bastards."

And he'd made it out of that meat locker. He'd had help – just like in the Pit, he'd been rescued – but he'd _survived_. They hadn't won. They hadn't beat him.

And they weren't going to beat him now.

He heard another one climb the same tree and he turned, firing multiple rounds until the creature fell through the roof, landing with a sickening crunch on the floor at Dean's feet. Unable to bite back a low cry a pain, he nevertheless beheaded it before it had a chance to rise, then kicked the head into the corner.

"Bring it!" He called out through the opened doorway, his raw throat bleeding in protest. "You want a piece of me?!"

"Oh, yes," came a female voice directly behind him.

He turned, shocked, wavering as his body wasn't able to keep up. He hadn't heard her climb the tree; she'd just dropped in on the heels of the one before.

"Ali," he rasped. "Thought you were dead."

"You tried pretty hard," she told him, stepping around him in a slow circle. "Dynamite. Effective."

"Apparently not enough."

"I'm resilient."

Dean swallowed. She looked so…_real._ So human. But he'd seen her new form. Seen the way her face changed as she prepared to feed.

"So what are you waiting for?" Dean asked. The Glock had three bullets left; he would need time to reload before the next vamp dropped down through the ceiling. And the Beretta was out of reach.

"Could ask you the same question."

"Maybe I want to give you an out," Dean tried; no way he was going to admit he didn't think he had the strength to raise the machete another time.

"Hardly." Ali's laugh was husky. The same sound she'd uttered as they lay next to each other, hearts hammering, skin sweaty, bodies liquid. "I sicken you." She looked almost delighted by the prospect.

Dean pressed his lips tight, his face stone, his eyes empty.

"Do you think of what we did together?"

Dean didn't reply, just kept his gun trained on her as she continued to circle him. His ears were perked for another tree climber. If he emptied this clip into her, he'd have to be able to get to the other gun and fast before another dropped in on him.

"You ever made love to a vampire, Dean?"

"You weren't a vampire then," Dean spat out, his skin crawling at the thought.

"I'm not talking about then," she purred, moving close to him with impossible speed. Before he could blink, she had closed the space between them, her hand on the back of his wounded neck, her forehead touching his, the gun pressed against her chest. "I'm talking about now."

Her breath was cold and odorless. He expected it to smell like blood, but all he felt was a chill as she exhaled across his mouth. He wasn't sure why he held so still, why he let her touch his face with the flat of her hand.

"I stopped them, Dean," she whispered against his mouth. "I stopped them from killing you. I wanted you to have a choice. The _same_ choice I had."

"By feeding me to the bat-vamps?" Dean scoffed.

She smirked, so close to him that her features were blurry. "That was temporary."

"Is there anything of Ali left in there?" he whispered. "Is there _anything_ of _you_ in there?"

At that, her eyes narrowed, turning almost feline, and her face broadened shifted. "This is me," she replied as the scent she gave off spiked high of rot and death. "This is all I am."

Dean swallowed as her mouth ghosted over his lips, her cold fingers flexing on the taut muscles at the back of his neck. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said, then pulled the trigger. Once. Twice.

She jerked back, stumbling over the body of one of her brood, crashing backwards against the wall, surprise clear on her monster-like face.

"Silver bullets won't kill a vamp," Dean told her. "But I bet they hurt like hell, don't they? Burning through you like fire."

Ali arched her back, her eyes rolling, her animal like teeth descending as her features became unrecognizable.

"I liked you," Dean continued, stepping closer. "The _other_ you. The one that you let them take away. You gave me some peace. I don't get much of that."

Ali hissed at him and reached one claw-like hand. Dean raised the machete and cut off her head, staring down at it, utterly spent. Maybe Noah was right – maybe it wasn't his fault she'd been turned. But a part of him was glad he'd been the one to put her down. At least now her half-life was over.

He wasn't offered more than one brief moment to fully register what he'd been forced to do before two more vamps dropped through the opened roof.

"Son of a—"

Dean exhaled, weariness complete, head pounding. In that moment, he released it all: fear and resistance left his body. He had nothing left but instinct. He simply moved, turning, bringing up an elbow, sweeping downward with the machete, firing his last bullet through one vamp's eye. It wasn't until the second vamp began to stumble backwards, looking for escape, that he registered something else was going on outside of the house.

Frowning, he let the second vamp scramble free, his machete dripping with the blood of four vamps, his sleeve gory with the results of his fight, his entire body trembling from adrenalin and exhaustion. On hollow legs, he stepped toward the open door and his mouth fell open.

There was something else going on outside the house all right and it was tearing through the vamps like a missile.

Before he'd truly registered what he was seeing, Dean had dropped the empty Glock and grabbed the Beretta filled with silver bullets. He stood just to the side of the doorway, peering out in wonder as the full moon's light illuminated patches of the land below, shadows dancing from the trees and catching the pale, bluish skin of the vamps as they took turns retreating and attacking the creature ripping them apart.

It was Noah, Dean realized with an odd echo of _knowing_ dancing around his brain.

It was _Noah_. Or what had been Noah.

The growls the creature was emitting sent chills up Dean's spine. They were wild, vicious, angry. Noah was bare-chested, his muscles coiling and bunching as if his skin was barely able to contain their might. His hands had turned to claws, hair traversing his wrists, his arms, his back. His face was fierce – his blue eyes seeming to reflect the moonlight, his mouth that of a lion with teeth dripping the blood of the vampire he was currently tearing apart.

As Dean watched, Noah grabbed the vamp that Dean had allowed to escape by the throat, ripping the creature's windpipe out _Roadhouse_-style and tossing it aside, then without so much as a pause in action, tore open the vampire's chest and shoved his face into the gore, raising his blood-stained head with the vamp's heart caught in his teeth.

Two more vamps – their hissing protests loud enough to turn to white noise against Dean's ears – jumped at Noah.

Noah threw the shell of the vamp he'd killed aside, reaching over his shoulder to grip the vampire on his back and tossed it against a tree. The other one shoved its razor-like claws into Noah's side and Dean couldn't help but wince as the hunter – _hunter_? _creature_? – roared in pain. Without thinking, Dean took aim and shot the vamp, allowing Noah to pull the claws from his flesh before turning to the dazed vamp still against the tree and ripping its head off with an almost effortless motion.

Dean caught his breath as Noah turned to face him, his face and chest covered in blood, his muscles heaving. Something akin to human despair crossed his wild features and Noah lifted his face, a desolate howl cresting the night and breaking against the wall Dean had constructed so tightly around him – the wall that hadn't let him care about anyone except Sam in a long, long time.

For a moment the two stared at each other, eyes wide and shocked, and then Noah ran off after the retreating vampires. Dean sagged against the wall, letting his arms finally drop, the machete falling from his uncooperative fingers, the acid in his muscles from forced exertion burning through him.

He shuddered as he blinked, his eyes stinging. His stomach rolled, bile burning at the base of his tortured throat. He pulled in deep breaths, refusing to be sick.

"A goddamn werewolf," he whispered.

It made sense. _Now_ it made sense.

Only it didn't. None of it did, but yet, there it was.

Dean kicked at the decapitated bodies of the vampires, wanting them away from him, out of there, but lacking the strength to drag them into the open. He settled for clearing a space around the make-shift bed Noah had made for him and sat down heavily, the Beretta trained on the unprotected doorway.

He couldn't move…couldn't _think_. He'd seen a great deal of violence in his lifetime. Had visited that violence upon others. But nothing matched what he'd just watched Noah do to those vampires.

Or, rather, the werewolf.

"This can't be real," he muttered through numb lips. "This can't be real."

He realized he might be in shock. _Of course_ it was real.

Just like Madison had been real when Sam was forced to kill her. Just like Lenore had been real when they let her go. Just like every spook and monster and demon and angel was real.

It was all _real_.

But Dean's mind was slipping the movie reel again and he was bouncing over what he wanted to register and what he couldn't. He sat still for a very long time, for hours it seemed, staring at the open door, at the moonlight, at the gathering shadows, and simply listened to the sounds of the night. His aching body grew stiff, his throat hot and desperate for water, but he didn't move.

When he heard the rasping breath approaching the cabin, he didn't move. When he heard the stumbling, dragging footsteps through the forest debris around the house, he didn't move. When he saw the clawed, hair-covered hand grip the doorway, he didn't move.

When Noah's animal-like face came around the corner, Dean chambered a round, relieved his body still responded to him.

Noah dragged himself into the house, his illuminated eyes trained on Dean. He was bloody from head to foot, but Dean couldn't tell how much of it was his and how much belonged to the vampires he'd destroyed. He didn't move toward Dean, didn't speak – Dean wasn't even sure if he _could_ speak.

He just stood and stared and breathed.

Dean didn't lower the gun. Every hunter's instinct in him screamed to pull the trigger. This was what he did. This was the _job. _ The one that was so damn important he had to focus on _it_ and not on Sam's need to truly get over the demon blood.

This was why he let his brother walk away.

_Shoot him…shoot him…shoot him._

Silver _would_ kill a werewolf, if he hit the heart. Otherwise, it would act as a poison until it worked through the creature's system. But he couldn't do it. He couldn't lower the gun, and he couldn't pull the trigger.

The only thing he could do was watch Noah gasp for breath.

After several moments, Noah's knees buckled and he slid down the wall, eyes still on Dean, but drooping as if he were hurt, exhausted. Dean resisted the crazy urge to go to him. The only concession he allowed was to lower the gun until his trembling arms rested in his lap.

He watched as the night released its grip, the moon gliding from its dominance of the sky, giving way to the first rays of the sun.

And in those moments, the wolf retreated, slipping from Noah's body like a knife being pulled from flesh. His body shook, back arched, lips pulled tight in a grimace as his muscles returned to normal, his hands went slack, and his teeth retracted.

A mourning dove cooed in peace from the top of the ruined roof, looking down on the headless bodies of three vamps and two beaten, broken hunters. Dean sat with Noah's Beretta in his lap, his eyes gritty with fatigue, body thrumming with the pain, staring at the slumped, unconscious body of Noah. He was covered in blood, chest barely moving with breath, but he was once again human.

"What am I supposed to do?" Dean whispered. "What the holy hell am I supposed to do now?"

* * *

**a/n:** So the secret's out! Dean has to decide how to answer his own question. Hope to see you return because the next chapter answers some more questions...


	8. Chapter 8

**Title: **Night of the Hunter  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Author**: gaelicspirit  
**Characters:** Dean, OC, with appearances by Sam, Bobby, and Castiel  
**Disclaimer/Warning:** They're not mine. More's the pity. Title of the story comes from a 30 Seconds To Mars song of the same name. This story is definitely PG-13 and might be considered borderline R in some parts for language, violence, and one mature scene in the first chapter.

**Author's Note: **Thanks for coming back! I'm SO sorry for the delay in posting. Real Life had other ideas about how I should use my time. I'll try to stay on track with weekly posting for the final three chapters.

I have to say I'm (pleasantly) surprised at how many of you didn't figure out what Noah was before the reveal last chapter. I worried I'd been too obvious with the clues. This is Noah's story – or as much as Dean can get him to tell before they have to take out the vampire nest. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

_No matter how many times that you told me you wanted to leave  
No matter how many breaths that you took, you still couldn't breathe  
No matter how many nights that you lie wide awake to the sound of poison rain  
Where did you go? Where did you go? Where did you go?  
_- 30 Seconds to Mars, _Hurricane_

www

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

He always ached the morning after.

As if the curse was the flu and he suffered all symptoms over the course of one night. His joints always took a couple of days before they stopped feeling over-extended. His muscles were sore to the touch for at least twenty-four hours. And it generally took him awhile to find whatever wounds had been visited upon him during the time he was…_gone_.

As he thought of it.

He wasn't _truly_ gone, though. He knew who he was, what he was doing.

He knew _exactly_ what he was doing.

It was as if he were amplified. Everything was brighter, louder, sharper, clearer. And the hunger tore at him. It practically _consumed_ him.

It took every bit of his willpower to keep it contained within the creature, within this one night, until he was able to find something he could release the hunger's wrath upon. And that wrath took a toll on his human body. He paid for his restraint with bone-deep aches all over his body. This morning, though, when Noah opened his eyes, he knew the day-after pain was the least of his problems.

Dean sat across the room, dressed in Noah's clothes, Noah's Beretta resting on his thigh, staring at him with eyes too old to fit inside his wounded face. Wanting to explain, instinctively needing to make sure the kid he'd worked so hard to keep alive was still in one piece, Noah pushed himself upright on shaking arms, a sharp pain in his side bringing him up short.

"You might want to look at that," Dean said in an ancient voice.

Noah looked down at himself, unable to see the wound with the amount of blood staining his bare torso. He glanced uncertainly at the bucket. Dean nodded once, never taking his aim off of Noah. Lurching unsteadily to his feet, Noah grabbed the bucket and stepped over vampire bodies on his way out through the door to the well. It took two buckets of water to clean the blood from his chest and face.

The wounds on his side had been from claws, he saw now. They were already healing. He filled another bucket and carried it back to the house. He wasn't thirsty anymore. Not like he'd been in the week leading up to the night the curse held sway. Silently, he reached into the backpack for clean clothes. He turned his back to Dean as he changed, tugging a clean T-shirt and a hooded sweatshirt over his head, shucking his ruined jeans and grabbing clean cargo pants. He didn't look at Dean, but was aware that the kid hadn't moved once, the gun still in his lap, his finger resting carefully alongside the trigger.

There was no doubt in Noah's mind that Dean could hit his heart without even trying.

Once clothed, he turned and looked down at Dean, waiting for the kid to say…something. _Anything_. When he didn't, when he simply started at him with shadowed, blood-shot eyes, Noah nodded, turning his attention to the bodies of the vamps in the house.

Dean had been busy in the night. How he'd managed to take out four vamps in his condition, Noah wasn't sure. But the evidence of Dean's desperate need to survive lay around them, the gory proof of his struggle in the blood that mixed with the dirt of the floor, turning it to paste.

Noah dragged the bodies outside, noting with surprise and regret that Ali was among the dead. The blood trail saturated the grass as he added them to the vamps he'd taken out of himself. He wasn't sure if the blood would ever wash away. This land was stained by blood. He could smell it, feel it on his hands, see it pooling in the crevasse created by a cluster of rocks near the entrance of the house. It turned his stomach, a surge of wet at the back of his mouth that he had to breathe through to fight back.

Piling the headless bodies onto what he knew would become a pyre – and tossing the heads around the base – he registered that none of them was Luke. He felt a pang of regret at that. It would have been easier if he'd taken Luke out during the night of the curse when the lust for blood erased almost every other instinct – hunter or human. Now, he would have to hold onto the feeling of the kill, keep it inside of him, not lose it to the hunger. To the wolf.

Grimacing at the eviscerated vampire, he moved the body to the pile, knowing instinctively that Dean had seen him destroy that one. It wasn't as though he thought the kid had any special love for the vamps; it was more that he knew when the wolf went for the heart it wasn't pretty. No matter how seasoned the hunter, there is a level of destruction the brain can't assimilate.

In all, they'd taken out thirteen vamps between them. It was a fraction of what waited for them in the nest, but it was a decent haul for two hunters.

_Well,_ Noah conceded, _one hunter, one werewolf._

He couldn't leave the bodies alone for long – they would attract animals soon enough. But he couldn't burn them yet. Not until they had a plan.

He took a steadying breath and made his way around to the pump, washing the blood from his hands as best he could. His body protested as he straightened up from the pump, causing him to pull in his breath in a sharp gasp. Glancing back over his shoulder at the house, he rubbed at his wounded side gingerly – the skin there still growing over the gaping holes left by the vampire's claws –and tried to pretend he wasn't avoiding heading back inside to face Dean.

He needed time, an idea, something that would help him figure out how to go back to being just a hunter when Dean had seen the truth. Taking a slow breath, he went up the hill to where he'd laid down the motorcycle when the change started. He'd decided to take the bike through the woods and down the creek bed when he realized that gathering supplies had taken longer than he'd planned.

He thought he'd have enough time to get back, get to a safe place before the curse took over; he'd been wrong. It hit him like a fever, like a fire in his blood turning him blind with pain and rage until his body was no longer his own and he was looking at the world through wild eyes.

Retrieving the pack of food, he pushed the bike back to the house, parked it outside the far wall, then squared his shoulders and headed inside.

"Here," he said, his voice rusty from disuse and rough from screaming. Or howling. It sounded like howling, but inside he was screaming. "Food." He tossed the bag within arm's reach of Dean.

Dean looked at the bag, then back up at Noah. He didn't move. It didn't look like kid had moved during the whole time Noah had been out. It almost looked like he wasn't sure how. He still sat on the quilt pallet, the gun gripped in his lap, his eyes on Noah as if seeing into a dark, scary abyss.

"I didn't lace it with werewolf poison or anything," Noah said in a weak attempt to lighten the mood. "Look," he sat down against the wall on the far side of the room, a mess of dirt, broken remnants of furniture, and vampire blood between them. "I'll stay all the way over here."

"You don't think I know you could cross the room before I can blink?"

Noah winced at the sound of Dean's voice. That rope had done a number on him.

"Kid, I'm just me," Noah told him, hearing the give in his tone. The need for acceptance. "It doesn't work like that – not like with the vamps. Without the full moon, I'm…, well, except for healing and, y'know, immortality… there's no super powers. I'm the same guy who hauled your ass out of that nest."

"Same guy I saw eat a vampire's heart?"

Noah looked down. "No," he shook his head. "No, that's the _other_ guy. Him, I don't like all that much."

"You only let him out at parties, that it?"

"One party a month," Noah said, looking up hopefully. He liked this kid. Wanted to trust him. Wanted to be trusted _by_ him. "What do you want me to say?"

"Why didn't you kill me?" Dean asked, tilting his head slightly to the side, slowly, as if his neck muscles were stone.

Noah frowned. "What? Why would I kill you?"

"Because you were…you're a… a…."

"Listen, I don't know how it works," Noah sighed. "But…I didn't _want_ to kill you. So I didn't."

"Just like that."

Noah swallowed. Dean's eyes had gone empty. It made him nervous. "Just like that."

"What's with the water?"

Noah blinked. "Water?"

"You've been drinking water like it's going out of style," Dean replied, narrowing his eyes.

"With the curse—"

"It ain't a curse," Dean interrupted, hefting the Beretta so that Noah's eyes pulled in on the barrel. "You're a werewolf, dude."

"It…feels like a curse," Noah returned, shifting his gaze out through the ruined door. He'd never been backed into a corner like this before. Never had to explain what he'd become. Especially not to a hunter. "I never wanted this. Never asked for it. For most of the month, I'm the same guy I've always been. Except that I don't get any older. And every wound heals up before it kills me."

"Convenient."

"It has been, yeah," Noah snapped at Dean. "Only thing this damn curse has been good for is keeping me alive long enough to take out this nest."

"So, the water help slow the…change, or whatever?" Dean asked, his eyebrows bunched in an intense, almost angry expression.

"How did you know that?"

"Dude, what do you think I am?" Dean returned. "Hunters read, y'know."

Noah looked down, rubbing the back of his neck. "About a week before the full moon, I get _so_ thirsty. Insatiable. Doesn't matter what I drink, it's not enough. One year I read up on lycanthropy and there's a link to it and," he glanced up at Dean, "rabies. There's a theory that the water delays the moon's power, but…it's never really worked."

Dean reached up and gingerly touched his wounded neck. Noah narrowed his eyes in concern and Dean tipped the barrel of the gun up slightly. Noah sighed. Waiting. Then relented.

"I shoulda told you."

"Yeah." Dean nodded once.

"I…didn't know how."

"You just _do it_," Dean snapped. "Hi, my name is Noah, I hunt vampires, oh, and by the way I'm a _fuckin' werewolf_."

Noah huffed out a laugh. "Right. Next thing I know there's a silver bullet with my name on it."

"I don't know why I didn't feed you one last night," Dean bit off.

"Neither do I!" Noah fired back. "Some bad-ass hunter."

"I should just do it now," Dean rasped, trying to yell, his voice slipping on him.

"Why don't you?" Noah challenged, the edge to his tone turning the air between them bloody. "Drag my carcass out to the pile of vamps, get on the motorcycle and head out of here. Leave the nest – doesn't mean shit to you. Vamps were killing people since God was a boy. One job – what does it matter?"

"It matters to me," Dean growled.

"Well, it matters to me, too!"

They stared at each other a long moment. Noah worked to calm his suddenly hammering breath, fear and anger warring for dominance of his slamming heart beat. He watched as the heat simmered in Dean's expression, an evident battle for control flickering just below the surface.

Then, Dean exhaled slowly and Noah saw him give way to something. He watched as Dean carefully set the Beretta aside like a white flag of truce, then scooted over to the bag of food. His hands were shaking. He knew Dean had to be hurting; he hadn't had nearly enough sleep and while the wounds on his body weren't dangerous, they were still pretty severe.

And that fever had weakened him – albeit not so much he hadn't been able to take out four vamps on his own….

"There's ibuprofen in there, too," Noah said, his voice gentling.

Dean bit into an apple. "You knock off a convenience store?"

"Campus commissary," Noah confessed.

Dean finished the apple in a few quick bites then tore into a plastic-wrapped sandwich. "You hungry?"

Noah shook his head. "I ate," he replied without thinking.

Dean stopped chewing for a moment, then sank back against the wall, downing the last bottle of water. "Start talking."

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything," Dean told him, finishing the sandwich and palming four ibuprofen. He dunked the water bottle into the bucket of well water to fill it up. "Did you plan on taking out the nest as the wolf?"

Noah shook his head. "But it would have been convenient."

"What were you planning on telling me when the moon came out?"

Noah shifted, shrugging as memories of the night before came back to him. "I wasn't planning on telling you anything. I wasn't planning on _you_ at all." He swallowed hard. "I was trying to get somewhere safe before…. But I was too late."

"Which came first? Hunting? Or the wolf?"

"Hunting," Noah told him, drawing his knees up and bracing his arms across them. He could see the angry welts on Dean's wrists and neck twisting as the kid dug through the food bag again. "I didn't get attacked until about five years into it."

"Start at the beginning."

Noah looked down and away. He'd never told anyone the whole story. He'd told one person the truth about the wolf, but she'd been killed by a vamp two days later. He could feel his body beginning to tighten up, a cold sweat flashing across his face and neck. He felt sick, scared, angry. He curled his fingers against his palms to keep his hands from visibly shaking.

"I, uh…I'm not sure how," Noah confessed, choking on the words. A reluctant, nervous laugh escaped. "I've never _said_…any of it."

Dean chewed quietly for a moment and Noah felt him thinking. He watched the kid's profile, the side facing him less bruised, looking almost normal.

And more than a little scary.

"Who's the girl?"

_I knew he saw the picture_. "Maggie. My wife."

Dean shot a look at him. "How old _are_ you, man?"

"Eight-seven."

Dean's eyebrows bounced up.

Noah lifted a shoulder. "I age well." Dean didn't so much as blink at his humor. "I was thirty-two when it happened."

Dean shook his head in wonder, looking away. "So, what happened to her?"

Noah felt his breath seize up as he tried to find the words. Each time the right one came to him it evaporated and the ache inside him grew, pressing his heart against his ribcage, making room for the hole he'd fallen into decades ago.

"I…she…," he stopped, pressing his hand against his sternum, trying to keep the hemorrhage of feelings at bay.

Dean had turned to face him, the wall holding him up, one leg bent under the other, his hands relaxed in his lap. When Noah lifted his eyes, he saw something in the other man's expression. Dean's bruises made him look more dangerous than vulnerable, and there was strength in the set of his jaw that steadied Noah.

He took a shallow breath. "She was killed."

It was out. He could do this. One step at a time.

"I was working at the factory near the harbor. They'd held my job while I was overseas."

"Vietnam?" Dean's brows met over the bridge of his nose as he tried to tie history together.

"France."

Dean pulled his head back. "Holy shit."

"Maggie and I went to school together. Never thought she'd go for me, y'know? I was a brawler back then. Which helped growing up in South Boston, and in the war, but not…."

He wasn't telling it in order, but the words were coming. He'd guarded them like prisoners for so long, the escape was slow. A tottering, geriatric truth scaling a chain-link fence of caution.

"But she saw me. Saw something in me worth saving, even after…even after I came back from the war. There was so much… Well, you know better than anyone." He glanced once at Dean, remembering the kid's fevered mutterings of Hell. "War changed me. She changed me back. She was…everything. My world."

He rested his elbows on his knees, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. "After, I couldn't…," he shook his head. "I had to leave Andrew with her sister. Couldn't even take care of him."

"Andrew?" Dean asked.

Hearing his son's name in the mouth of another all these years later was jarring. Noah dropped his hands and stared at Dean with burning eyes.

"My kid. He's two." He looked out through the opened doorway. "_Was_ two. Shit. He's…sixty something now. If he's still alive."

Dean was staring at him with unchecked surprise now. Noah tried to go on, tried to tell Dean about the magic that seemed to always surround Maggie. How she would clean house wearing his shirts and boxers – a habit that would shock the neighbor women right down to their stockings if they'd ever found out. How she had a mouth like a sailor when she got mad. How she hated to be told she was wrong. How she could get lost in a town she'd lived in all her life.

He wanted someone to know what she sounded like when she laughed, how her hips swayed when she washed the dishes, the way the bend of her neck smelled. But he couldn't connect the images to words, the words to sound. There was something blocking the path to understanding.

A night of the wrong kind of silence, of Andrew crying in his crib, of the metallic smell of blood, and of no more Maggie. He didn't realize he was near tears until he tried to breathe and felt the emotion thick at the back of his throat.

_Some bad-ass hunter_, Noah thought, throwing his own words back at himself.

He had been a supernatural creature longer than he'd been human and yet he couldn't release the yearning, the very real _need_ that defined being human. He lived purposely alone, made no connections, no friendships, no relationships, and had come to thrive on that solitude. Feed off of it. It gave him strength, made him cold and focused. Gave him the space he needed to turn his body into a weapon, find out how to kill this race of vamps, survive countless attacks.

But then this kid came into his life and tossed everything sideways and now he was telling him about Maggie…. Noah felt his burning eyes spill, felt the tear as it blazed a trail down through the scruff on his cheek and jaw. He hadn't cried in years. Decades. He didn't realize he still could. He caught his breath carefully, curling in. If he gave so much as an inch, the pain he'd bottled up would destroy him.

"Tell me about Luke," Dean demanded, softly.

"Huh," Noah huffed. He ran his tongue along his bottom lip, catching the tears there and rolling his neck to try to dispel the knot of emotion in this chest. He sniffed. "Luke was always a little…rebellious. He was smart. Too smart, really. He was reckless and selfish and a little crazy. The good kind of crazy. He…," Noah shrugged, "he pushed me. Made me step out of myself and notice things. He was…," he looked up at Dean, "he was my best friend."

He caught the way Dean's eyes shifted away at that.

"I remember this one time," Noah glanced away from Dean's bruised face, his mind's eye caught up in the memory. "I was heading to the harbor with some buddies of mine and Luke wanted to come. My pal had this car…I couldn't tell you what kind, but it was the only one between us with a back seat." He felt his mouth relax in a grin. "Luke was sitting in the back, his arm out the window, and I was driving. I flicked my cigarette out the window and the wind caught it, tossed it down the sleeve of his T-shirt."

Noah shook his head. "That kid could cuss, man. I didn't know he knew half those words. I was all panicked, pulled over, jumped out, thinking his shirt was on fire…," Noah rubbed his eyes. "He had some burns, but was fine. Know what he did?"

"Asked you for a smoke?" Dean guessed.

Noah looked at him in surprise. "Yeah. How'd you guess that?"

Dean lifted a shoulder, but didn't reply.

It was odd, Noah thought, what he was able to remember fifty years after the fact. Even after all the blood and pain, even after the moment that changed everything, he was still able to recall the Luke that had been his pain-in-the-ass brother. The kid who had followed him everywhere. He shouldn't be able to, he reasoned. All those memories should have been erased by that one horrible night.

"Go on," Dean prompted him.

Noah glanced at Dean's hands. They were pressed tight against his thighs in an obvious attempt to keep them still. He was hurting, that much was clear. But he wasn't giving Noah an opening.

"Our mom died when Luke was a baby. She'd been sick awhile; he didn't remember her or what happened to her. Our Pop," Noah bobbed his head, remembering, "he was killed when Luke was eight. And, uh, he remembered that just fine. It kinda…changed something in him. He never let me out of his sight."

"When I went overseas during the war he, uh…," Noah continued, "he didn't take it well. He was only sixteen, couldn't join up. I got a letter one day from our priest, telling me Luke had run off. No one knew where he was." Noah cleared his throat, straightening his back and hardening his voice. This part was easier. This part held his hatred. "Turns out he'd headed down to New Orleans. A prostitute found him. A familiar. She took him to one of the brood. They made him theirs. He was twenty when it happened. Guess he always will be."

Dean said nothing to that; his eyes never left Noah's face.

"'Course I didn't find that out until years later. I came home from the war, married Maggie. "

"You know it was Luke? You know he killed Maggie?" Dean asked, connecting the dots faster than Noah was ready for him to.

Noah nodded, unable to find his voice.

"How?"

Noah felt himself start to shake from the inside out. He'd never actually told the _real_ story. He'd had a story for the police, one that was pared down for the neighbors and for Maggie's sister when he took Andrew to her. He'd had a story for his Army buddies, one that he retold to the hunters he encountered.

But none of them where whole truth. The _real_ truth.

He didn't think he could get the words out. There was a reason stuff like this stayed inside where nobody else could see it. He had a sudden visual of his body on that rack Dean had railed about in the midst of his fever. Pinned down, skin splayed out, exposing the ugly truth to the whole world. He ached with the weight of the words.

"Everyone has a story, man," Dean said quietly, and in his tone Noah heard a note of acceptance.

Noah shook his head helplessly. "I've never told anyone. Not once."

Dean already knew more truth about him than anyone else he'd encountered in his over-extended life. He didn't know if he could take another step along the path of his story.

A mourning dove cried above them. The sun burned off the fog. The smaller animals curiously explored the pile of bodies outside the house. And the two hunters sat, a mess of blood and dirt between them, on opposite sides of a ruined house, each holding their pain close, like an invisible force field.

"When I was four years old," Dean said suddenly, causing Noah to jerk in surprise, "a demon killed my mom. Stabbed her in the stomach, pinned her to the ceiling above my brother's crib. Then set her on fire."

"Jesus Christ," Noah whispered in horror.

"I saw her…just for a second, but," he lifted a shoulder, "you don't ever forget something like that. My Dad, he…he grabbed up my brother, shoved him in my arms, and told me to get outside. Take Sam and go." He looked up at Noah. "So I did. And Sammy and I got out. And so did Dad. But Mom…." He shook his head. "Everyone has a story."

Noah looked down, rubbing at an old callous on his palm. "I knew when I walked into the house that something was wrong. Andy was crying, the house was cold, and there was this smell…," he paused, took a breath, felt the sweat bead on his upper lip. "She wasn't dead…not yet. I saw her blink. But he…he was still…drinking."

He wanted to throw up. Cry. Hit something.

"He looked up when he heard me and…you've seen them. He looked like…an animal. Evil. Luke had always been…well, magnetic. He kinda drew people to him. But this…he repulsed me. I backed away. I couldn't think…I just had to get away from him."

"There's a limit to what you can deal with, man," Dean said, giving him an out.

"Y'know, I spent years trying to figure out why I didn't charge the room and rip him away from her. I dreamed about it. A lot. And every time, I go to her and pull her off of his fangs." Noah had to work to swallow. A sick sweat had broken out all over his body. "And I know _now_ there wasn't anything I could have done had I run forward instead of backwards…but it doesn't matter. I still left her with Luke."

"It wasn't Luke anymore," Dean offered, somehow still wanting to offer Noah a rope, a foothold. Even after what he'd confessed.

"Yeah, that's what I told myself. For years. That when a person is turned, all of their goodness shrivels up and vanishes and is replaced by something evil. And everything that made them who they were died and the creature is just…wearing their face."

"But you don't believe it?"

Noah shook his head. "Not really." The confession burned.

"Why?" Dean frowned, leaning forward.

Noah looked at him. "Because of me."

Dean blinked, drawing back, the look on his face plainly stating he'd lost the thread of the conversation, the reason he'd demanded this story in the first place. His color drained, his lips pressed tight, and his eyes went flat. Noah had expected that, but it still sucked his breath out a bit.

"I hunted vampires for five years after Maggie. I killed dozens of them, looking for Luke. I found the prostitute who'd betrayed him. She wasn't a familiar anymore. A different brood – one that was more…human-like than Luke's group – had turned her. She'd actually _wanted_ it." He shuddered slightly at the thought, even all these years later. "I made her talk before I killed her. Found out she was the one who'd put Luke on the path to getting to me. She convinced him that he needed to turn me, if he was ever going to be happy." He sighed, looking out through the door once more. "I just focused on finding him. I was…stupid. Lucky. I should have died at least fifty times in those years. But I didn't."

"You didn't stay lucky," Dean pointed out.

Noah dropped his eyes to the dirt and blood-paste covered floor. Somehow this was the easiest part of the whole story.

"I was jumped one night," he started. "I was leaving a bar. I still rode trains back then, so I was headed for the rail yards. You have to run at the right angle and speed to get on one of the boxcars and not tear your arm out of the socket. I was focused on that." He began to nervously crease a fold in a pocket on his cargo pants. "There were five of them. I fought, but I'd had too much to drink and they were…determined. They didn't really want money, if you know what I mean."

He glanced quickly at Dean, then away, out through the opened doorway. "They were strong. Worked me over pretty good. I looked almost as pretty as you," he slid his eyes askance. "I knifed one – I never went anywhere without something to use on vamps. Three ran off when the guy fell, but the last one bent over him and I stopped." He looked down. "To this day, I don't know why I stopped."

Dean listened quietly, but Noah saw in his hard expression the realization of how easy it had been. How quickly the touch of evil could taint even someone who spent their life fighting it.

"He stood up and was on me before I knew what was happening. He bit me," Noah raised his forearm and showed Dean the only scar on his body that wouldn't fade: a crescent shaped bite mark, "before I managed to get away and jump on the train. He looked human, so I didn't realize what it meant. I spent two weeks thinking the bite on my arm was just from some crazy bastard who jumped me in a rail yard."

"Until the full moon," Dean guessed.

Noah nodded. "First time I changed, I didn't know anything could hurt that bad. But…it wasn't like I went away. I was…_gone_, but also…_not_… at the same time." He looked at Dean. "Does that make sense?"

"No." The abruptness of the word had Noah worrying his lip.

"It's like," Noah searched for a way to describe being aware, but not being himself…being in control, but only _just_, "being high. Or drunk. I know who I am, I'm aware of what I'm doing, but it's nothing I'd do under normal circumstances."

"And that's why you think a part of the person is still in the vamp."

"Yeah," Noah nodded. "A twisted part. Not one they'd ever let out in the open under normal circumstances. Not the part that anyone wants to pay attention to…wants to admit to being there. But…it's still them."

Dean's eyes shifted to the corner of the house where Noah had seen Ali's body lying. His face seemed to tighten a bit, his voice barely audible when he said, "I've seen werewolves before. I've killed them. Sam's killed them. They didn't know what they were doing. Who they were when they…y'know…wolfed out."

Noah nodded. "Me too."

"But _you_ control it. The…hunger."

Noah narrowed his eyes. There was something there, under the question. Something else bowing Dean's shoulders. "I'm not a monster all the time, Dean. I only _have to_ control it one night a month."

"But…how?"

Noah shrugged. "Near as I can figure, it's because I was bitten by a werewolf in human form. I haven't found many books on the matter. I tried to ask another hunter, but he caught on and I had to get out of there or kill the bastard. Didn't want to do that, so…I decided to just roll with it."

"How many humans have you killed?" Dean asked suddenly.

"As a wolf? One. As a man…," he shook his head. "I don't know."

"War doesn't count," Dean frowned.

"Why not?" Noah challenged. "I've been in two of 'em. I did some pretty horrible things to people. And war aside…there's been…collateral damage."

Dean's brows drew together. "How so?"

"Those people back in the mill, for example," Noah pointed out through the opened door, his stomach churning at the memory of the hanging bodies. "I got you out…left them behind."

Dean took a long drink of water, looked at the bottle, then capped it, setting it down. "This needs to be a helluva lot stronger for that conversation."

"I've let so many people die tracking vamps to find the nest…. Killing one human as a wolf is the _least_ of my problems." Noah dropped his head back against the wall, trying to find space in his body for breath.

"How is that possible – _one_ human?" Dean's doubt was clearly laced through his words.

"I didn't realize what I needed that first time until the hunger grabbed me. I found this bum…under a bridge, and I…." He didn't finish. Couldn't. "After that, though, I discovered vampire hearts fed the hunger, too. They just aren't as…potent, so I need more of them." He pulled his head away from the wall. "Two birds, one stone."

"So that's why they all pulled away – back there at the mill when you cut your arm," Dean concluded.

Noah nodded. "You saw that, huh?"

"Saw it. Couldn't figure it out."

Noah lifted a shoulder. "You were barely on your feet," he conceded. "I knew they'd smell the wolf if they could smell my blood. And it would back them off…at least for a moment."

"Think that's what got Luke's attention?"

"Maybe," Noah said quietly, looking down. "Maybe."

Dean stared at him a moment, then dragged his hand down his face. "Werewolf and vampire brothers. You guys are like a fuckin' Greek tragedy." His sigh groaned out of him; he looked exhausted. "What now, huh?"

Noah lifted his shoulder. "Why should anything change?"

Dean glanced away, quiet, his jaw working around what looked to be some pretty heavy thoughts. After several moments of silence, he finally conceded, "We do have a vampire nest to clear out."

Noah nodded. "And my no ganking promise is still iron-clad."

"That's good to know," Dean almost-smiled. "Plus, since you can't die…make everything a bit easier."

Noah leaned his head back again, closing his eyes. "Nothing easy about not dying." Dean was quiet and Noah went on. "People _need_ to die, Dean. They want to, even though they don't know it. It's the only way anything means anything to us, if death is a possibility," he looked at Dean, "if we know that life is finite. Death makes people feel alive."

"I know," Dean said softly. "Believe me," his eyes met Noah's, and the pain Noah saw in them sucked the breath from his lungs. "I know."

As Dean continued to look at him, his eyes unfocused and he blinked harder, as if trying to erase an image. His gaze darted to the side, then he closed his eyes once more, forcing them open as his fingers tightened their grip on his thighs. He looked as if he were seeing two of Noah and trying to decide which was the right one.

"I think we're safe for awhile," Noah said after a moment. "It's gonna take them awhile to regroup after the ass-kicking we gave them last night."

Dean shook his head, reaching for the wall and shoving his feet beneath him. It took Noah a moment to realize the kid was trying to get to his feet. He tensed, reaching out a reactive hand, though he was much too far away to help. Dean gripped the wall and managed to get to his feet, but his eyes were still unfocused. Noah wasn't sure where he was planning on going, but if he wasn't going to get far.

"Why don't we trade watch, get some sleep?" Noah suggested, moving to a crouch, trying to calculate if he'd be able to catch Dean should he fall.

"Why not go after them right now?" Dean asked, frowning. He released the wall and took a step forward, swaying dangerously.

"Kid, you can barely stay upright. You think you're gonna be able to go up against a couple dozen angry vamps?" Noah balanced on the balls of his feet, not standing quite yet, afraid that if he did, he'd send Dean off-balance completely.

"I can hold my own," Dean replied, lifting his chin, his eyes going cold. He managed to get to the open doorway, gripping the decaying edges with trembling fingers.

Noah watched Dean a moment, not doubting his conviction in the slightest. He looked out at the bodies piled up in the clearing. "We're not ready," he said quietly.

Dean was silent for a moment, his stillness speaking for the internal battle he was obviously waging. After time stretched to make room for his struggle, Dean finally asked, "What about the bodies?"

At that, Noah grinned. "They're gonna be our protection tonight," he said. "Vamps _hate_ fire."

Dean seemed to sigh a bit and Noah saw the kid's knees buckle one second before he shot to his feet, catching the hunter beneath his shoulders before he went all the way down.

"Easy, kid," Noah said softly. "You don't have to be the hero all the time."

"Lemme go," Dean grumbled, trying to struggle away. "I got this."

Noah let go and Dean went to his knees, swearing as he tried to hold himself up by gripping the wall. Noah reached for him again, and Dean smacked his hand away.

"I said I _got it_," Dean growled. "Don't need your help."

Noah nodded, inching away, watching as Dean struggled back to the quilt pallet and collapsed, breathing hard.

"Son of a bitch," Dean gasped.

"Kid," Noah tried, his voice calm, quiet, "they didn't kill you, but they worked you over pretty good. You need rest."

"I need to kill the bastards," Dean retorted.

"After you rest."

"Think _they're_ resting?" Dean shot back, lifting his head, his pupils so wide Noah barely saw any green. "They're figuring out how to kill us, man."

"They haven't been able to kill us yet," Noah pointed out. "They know you managed to take out four of them when you're half dead. They know you've got a werewolf with you. You need to rest, heal up some more. We need to be ready." He looked at Dean, letting his expression harden with the fervor he put behind his next words. "I _can't_ lose this fight."

Dean clenched his jaw, pushing himself upright, holding himself still, though Noah could still see the fine tremors surfing through his body from abuse and exhaustion.

"In shifts," Dean consented.

Noah nodded. "Shifts," he agreed.

www

It took a bit of convincing, but Noah won the first watch. It wasn't really a fair fight: Dean was gray-faced and weaving where he sat. But he was stubborn, unwilling to give way in the slightest until his body gave him no choice.

He didn't immediately drop off as Noah had thought he might. He slumped against the wall, watching with weary eyes as Noah tossed the pieces of broken furniture through the opened door to aid in the fire he would build when darkness came. Taking out these vamps was not going to be easy – especially after the brood had been decimated by a werewolf.

They needed rest and they needed a plan.

Noah hadn't slept in over forty-eight hours – between watching over Dean and then the full moon – but he wasn't even close to tired. Aside from the post-wolf rush, he felt a whole different level of energy fueled by purpose; an odd sort of weightlessness buoyed his steps. There was a freedom that came with confession, something he'd not felt in a long, long time. His whole life, there had been only three short years when he'd felt unburdened, complete. And his brother destroyed it.

He cleaned out the room, stacking anything they could use for protection – like chair legs that could be turned into stakes – against the wall across from Dean, throwing the rest into an adjacent room or out onto the rubbish pile. There wasn't much he could do about the blood on the floor; they would just have to ignore it.

He was emptying the backpack and inventorying the duffel's contents when he heard Dean's unintelligible mutter. Glancing up, he realized that nearly an hour had passed since he'd convinced Dean to rest. Sometime in there, Dean had succumbed to exhaustion, sliding down to an awkward, curled position on the quilt, his bruises facing upward. Noah froze, watching the hunter's face pull tight, his eyes darting beneath his closed lids.

Dean twitched in his sleep.

Noah had thought that the previous night it had been from the fever, thrashing from the pain and the images the poison forced into his brain, but he saw now that it was apparently usual. The man never really rested; his fingers flexed and reached, his legs jolted and poised to run. As Noah watched, Dean jerked his head as if dismissing something, his lips moving rapidly, no sound escaping.

Noah swallowed, carefully setting down the rock salt he'd pulled from the duffel. He knew Dean needed rest – his body had been through too much lately to keep going at this pace – but he couldn't let the kid stay trapped in a nightmare.

Living one was hard enough.

Crouching next to the quilt pallet, Noah reached out a careful hand, laying it gently on Dean's shoulder. The reaction was immediate and startling. Flight was apparently not programmed into Dean's DNA: it was straight from oblivion to fight.

Before his eyes had fully opened – and well before they'd focused – Dean had slapped the hand away from his shoulder and reached up to grab Noah's throat, his grip tight, dangerous.

Noah gasped, instinctively drawing back, but the motion didn't succeed in shaking Dean loose, it only dragged Dean up with him.

"Ki—" he tried, not able to get air.

He grabbed Dean's rope-bruised wrist, squeezing until the pain cut through and focused Dean's eyes. With a half-aborted cry of surprise, Dean released him, scrambling away until his back was against the wall, as Noah collapsed onto his forearms, coughing and gasping for breath.

"Holy shit," Dean breathed. "I'm sorry, I—"

"'S okay," Noah rasped, waving Dean off as he pushed back onto his heels, his face flushed, his eyes watering. "Really."

"I didn't…I didn't know…," Dean muttered, pressing the back of his shaking hand against his mouth. He swallowed, looking wildly around the room.

"Must've been one helluva dream," Noah commented, his voice still a bit rough, but coming back. He coughed again.

"I…," Dean shook his head. He didn't seem to be able to settle his eyes on any one thing; it looked like he was searching for something.

On a hunch, Noah leaned back and away, clearing Dean's eye line to the contents of his duffel bag. He felt something shift in the center of his chest as Dean's gaze hit the weapons and stilled, his eyes widening slightly to take them in – not out of surprise or worry, but out of relief and reassurance. Noah sat quietly as Dean's fingers flexed in the quilt beneath him, his breathing slowing and evening out as he stared at the weapons.

"You want to talk about it?" Noah asked carefully when Dean was once more breathing regularly.

Dean shook his head. "Just get them sometimes." He gingerly rubbed his face, avoiding the bruises. Trailing his hands down his jaw, he dabbed at the rope burns on his throat. Wordlessly, Noah handed him a newly-filled water bottle.

Glancing over his shoulder, Noah saw that it was early afternoon. If he was a betting man, he'd wager they had a little over twenty-four hours before the vamps regrouped and attacked. It had taken that long for the group to hit the house after the dynamite escape fiasco. He and Dean had one night to regain their strength and prepare their assault on the nest. This time tomorrow, it was going to be over one way or another.

Which meant he needed Dean's head in the game, and it clearly wasn't.

Dean's eyes were bruised with exhaustion, his hands were trembling and he couldn't seem to pull his eyes away from the weapons stash. It was almost as if he were mentally categorizing them. It reminded Noah of something from the war – his first one…the one he'd fought as a human.

"When I was in France," he began, quietly, leaning back against the wall, tenting his knees and hanging his arms across the gap, "in '43, my company came up on this town. The Germans had already been there and there were bodies just…everywhere. We had to clean up, clear a path for the tanks to move through and get to a bridge."

Dean didn't move. But Noah could feel him listening.

"We had this guy in our company – Ramsey. Younger than the rest of us, and smaller, too. But feisty, y'know? Like nothing could keep him down. Nothing." Noah shook his head, getting lost in his story. "We all did what we were ordered, but it was…it was hard. There were little kids in the town. They didn't look…I mean, you'd've sworn that all you had to do was…was whisper their name…shake their arm. And they'd open their eyes."

Dean started to uncoil slightly. He didn't look away from the weapons, but Noah knew he had the hunter's attention.

"Ramsey pulled the bodies of four kids out of a demolished kitchen. He held the littlest one for a long time. He held her until the rest of us were done. Our Lieutenant finally had to take her from him. He wasn't the same after that. For weeks, he'd wake up screaming, shaking, convinced he was back in that town."

Noah watched Dean carefully as he continued the story. "We were afraid he was going to get us killed, alert the Germans. One night, Lieutenant grabs him outta one of those bad dreams and says to him, _grab something here and hold onto it._"

Dean looked up at that, his eyes almost fever bright. He trained his gaze on Noah and waited.

"He tells him it doesn't matter if we're sleeping cozy in a USO, or camped out in the tracks of a Panzer, he needs to find something that's real and hang onto it until he remembers that he's not back in that damn town."

Dean swallowed, nodding slowly. "I…uh," he exhaled slowly, "know how he feels. Felt, I guess."

"Ramsey made it home," Noah told him. "I checked later. He's a grandpa, living in Philly."

"That's good," Dean said, his lips tipping up in a shaky, weak smile. "That's real good."

The trees creaked in the wind and they both jumped, eyes darting to the broken roof. When nothing dropped down with intent to kill, Noah exhaled and looked back at Dean.

"Think you could get some more sleep?" Noah asked him.

Dean didn't answer.

"You need it more than me, kid," Noah coaxed, "especially now."

"When I came back from Hell," Dean said, unexpectedly, his voice quiet, subdued, "I lied to Sam."

Noah blinked, holding very still as he watched the other man stare into the middle distance, eyes on something Noah would never see.

"I told him I didn't remember anything. Clean slate." He waved a hand listlessly as if to erase invisible scars. "One minute I was ripped up by Hellhounds…the next…digging my way out of a grave."

_And here I thought my life was tough_. Noah bit the inside of his cheek to keep from speaking.

"But he knew." Dean huffed out a humorless laugh. "I mean, he didn't _know_…but he knew me. Knew I was full of shit. And he just…waited me out."

"What did he say when you told him the truth?" Noah asked quietly, wondering just what that truth entailed and how Dean could function with memories of _Hell_.

"Nothing," Dean said, his face stone. Then he flicked his eyes to Noah and the sorrow caught there was so real and raw Noah thought Dean might break apart. "I mean, what do you say to that?"

Noah shook his head helplessly.

"He brought me out of the nightmares, though," Dean revealed. "Figured out a way to remind me that I wasn't…I wasn't back there. On that rack."

His voice cracked around the last word. Noah remembered the wild mutterings and desperate cries from two nights ago when the fever raged through Dean, how he'd thought _they_ were cutting him, pulling him apart. Noah's stomach twisted with the memory and he rubbed his suddenly sweaty palms along his jeans.

"Is that why Sam left?" Noah asked, unable to help himself. "Because of what you'd been through in Hell?"

There was something significant about Sam no longer being around, no longer hunting with Dean. It visibly haunted Dean. Almost as much as Hell obviously did.

Dean tipped his head back, his mouth falling back in an empty smile. "Kinda."

Frowning, Noah concentrated on the tip of his boot so as not to look over at Dean. "Seems a bit…unfair."

"Yeah." Noah glanced to the side as he heard Dean slide down the wall, his body giving in. "But…when I was there," Dean said quietly, his voice taking on a gently defensive tone – the one Noah used to get with the neighborhood kids about Luke: _nobody messes with my brother except me_. "Sam went through his own shit. And it wasn't something that he could shake off. Couldn't let go. He just…hunting, it's…he can't be here now. Not now."

"Everyone has a story," Noah repeated, understanding what Dean meant.

Dean nodded, his eyes dropping closed. "Miss him, though."

"Yeah," Noah replied to the quiet confession.

He waited another moment, watching to make sure the hunter was truly sinking back into sleep, and then returned to his inventory. There were nine sticks of dynamite left, rock salt, holy water, two more guns, a package of something Noah couldn't identify, and enough silver slugs that if they melted them down, they could tip the stakes and make them rather painful. He didn't dig deeper into the bag, avoiding touching the silver without his gloves.

As Dean slept, Noah worked his knife on the chair legs, narrowing the points to make sure they'd break through skin – and bone, with enough thrust behind it. He rummaged through the house, finding a trap door in the ceiling of an adjacent room and climbed up to what had once been an attic – partially destroyed, now, the floor crumbling away to expose Dean sleeping beneath him. Picking his way around the rotted floorboards, Noah found more candles and a heavy ceramic bowl they could use to melt the silver.

The day was tapering to evening. Noah walked the perimeter of the house, making sure the protective circle was still intact, then, remembering the vamps inside the cabin, climbed back up to the attic and spread some of the protective mixture along the edges of the roof, hoping the low wind didn't blow it away. It wasn't as if they couldn't find a way to get in if they really wanted to. He'd fought and killed a lot of vampires over the last fifty years; this race was truly feral and the evil around them was pervasive.

He stood balanced on two of the strongest beams that protruded from the roof, staring over toward the mill. The wind carried the vamp's scent toward him and he felt the fine hairs along his neck stand at attention. After all this time, after so many years of searching and surviving, hatred and vengeance the one thing driving him forward, he was going to end it.

"What the hell are you doing up there?"

Noah jerked in surprise, almost losing his balance, at the gravelly sound of Dean's voice cutting through the peace of the woods.

"For fuck's sakes," Noah growled at him. "Warn a guy."

"Well, get down here, you moron! You're like some kinda freaky monster beacon."

Noah leaned over, grabbing the lower beam, and swung down into the house, dropping to the floor in a crouch and straightening up at the sight of Dean, standing with a Colt 1911 in one hand and Noah's Beretta in the other.

The first thing Noah registered was that the kid was no longer shaking.

"Feeling better?" Noah asked, arching his eyebrow at the weapons.

Dean flipped the Beretta around to grip it by the barrel and handed it to Noah. "Yeah. How long was I out?"

Noah took the gun, automatically checking the clip, and peered with narrowed eyes through the doorway. "About five hours."

"What?" Dean's voice squeaked slightly with indignation.

"You needed it, kid."

"What about you?"

Noah lifted a shoulder. "I don't need as much right now."

"How—wait, never mind." Dean held up a hand. "I don't think I want to know."

They stood squared off; Noah couldn't read Dean's expression, but the energy he felt radiating from the other hunter had him proceeding with caution. "What is it?"

Dean set his jaw, looking away. Something was stuck in his craw – something more than lingering nightmares, or Noah having witnessed his weakness.

"My dad, he," Dean started, then looked down at the Colt still held in a loose grip, his lips pursing around words that seemed to elude him. His brows pulled close over the bridge of his nose and Noah waited, feeling his back muscles tighten. "He taught Sam and me how to hunt. He raised us like…," he looked up again, "soldiers. It was a right and wrong world; there wasn't any question who the bad guys were."

Noah felt himself settle into his heels, his body reacting automatically to a possible threat, though his brain hadn't quite caught up yet. He realized he was gripping the Beretta tightly and tried to loosen his fingers.

"Sam, though," Dean shook his head, his mouth pulling back in a rueful smile, his eyes sad, "he sees things in gray. Just because someone was a vampire didn't make them evil."

Frowning, Noah shook his head once. "Where are you going with this?"

"I thought I knew," Dean said, looking directly at him, his eyes serious. "I thought I knew where the line was, and who was on which side. Until I started listening to my brother."

Still off-balance, Noah tightened his jaw, waiting.

"Dad would have put you down last night," Dean informed him. "Instead of shooting that vamp off your back, he would have put you down because you're a werewolf, plain and simple. Doesn't matter if you can control the hunger; doesn't matter if you're a hunter twenty-nine days of the month."

Noah darted his eyes to the Colt in Dean's hand, swallowing. If Dean decided to fire, he didn't stand a chance. Because he couldn't kill this kid.

"But I'm not my dad. And I'm not my brother. It's not about _what_ you are. It's about _who_ you are. And you've done right by me."

Noah felt a little dizzy by Dean's logic, trying to find his balance inside of the words. "So…you won't kill me. That's what you're saying."

"I could," Dean allowed. "If I had to. But I don't think have to."

Huffing out a confused laugh, Noah saw that Dean simply needed to spell it out – if not for Noah, than for himself. He'd needed to find his own path and justify its direction different from his family's. Noah nodded.

"And you won't, either."

"Good," Dean said, sliding the Colt into his back waist band. "What's our plan?"

Putting the Beretta away, Noah showed him the inventory. "I figure we melt down the silver and tip the stakes – which is going to be your job."

"Naturally." Dean bobbed his head in agreement.

"Thing is, the dynamite's no good if we can't get it to trigger an incendiary device. We need them to burn."

"What do you think this is?" Dean leaned over and grabbed the package Noah hadn't been able to identify.

"Not a clue."

Dean gave him a look. "It's dust. Mostly magnesium, but some sawdust and coal, too."

"Dust." Noah repeated in a flat voice.

"Some pressure and an ignition – bam! They use this in fireworks displays all the time. Add some silver to it, and you've got yourself one helluva vamp bomb."

The gears began falling into place. "You were going to build a bomb?"

"How else did you think I was planning on taking out the nest?"

Noah lifted a shoulder. "One at a time?"

"Yeah, well, somebody told me that was a bad idea."

"So you _did_ listen." Noah lifted his chin, eyes on Dean.

"Just because you were a jackass doesn't mean you didn't have a good point."

Noah felt his mouth tug upwards in a grin. "Or you tried it and it almost killed you, so you figured my idea might be better."

"Or that," Dean tipped his head to the side in concession.

Noah didn't bother explaining that his original plan had involved much the same kamikaze approach as he'd warned Dean against.

As Dean explained how they'd set the bomb, rigging it with the dynamite to explode, Noah gaped in amazement. "How'd you learn this stuff?"

"You ever hear of the Internet?"

Noah waved a hand at him. "Whatever. No way you got all this from the Internet."

"Seriously. Well, that and Bobby."

_Bobby Singer…._ Noah remembered. "Singer, right?"

Dean blinked at him. "You know him, don't you?"

Noah didn't answer.

"He knows you," Dean told him. "'Course, he thinks you're your son. Or…something that doesn't make me sound buckets of crazy."

"I met him right after 'Nam," Noah nodded. "It's funny, 'cause I usually don't remember names. But I remember his. Guess when you don't connect with many hunters, the ones you do stick with you. He wasn't some hunting guru then."

Dean shook his head. "That came later; he remembers you hunted vampires."

Noah dug through the bag he'd procured from the commissary. "I may or may not have talked it up a bit."

"Dude. Anyone ever tell you hunting's like _Fight Club_?"

"Right, right, well," Noah shrugged. "Sometimes…you gotta break the rules."

"You guys run into some Vietnamese vampires or something?"

Noah shot his eyes up to Dean, then looked away. Now was not the time for _that_ story. "Or something." He tossed Dean the last sandwich and took the energy bar for himself. "Eat. We've got work to do."

By the time Noah had dug his slim leather gloves from his backpack, Dean had inhaled the sandwich and was prying the silver slugs from the bullet jackets, tapping the gunpowder into a pile next to him. Noah watched as the kid moved carefully, holding his arms close to his body, not moving his shoulders or his torso too much. He knew Dean had to be sore; the stretched muscles, little sleep, and forced exertion would be taxing his system. But he pushed himself.

At one point, Noah saw Dean stop, brace himself, and pull in a breath, his eyes closed against what was obviously a shimmer of pain. He wanted to go to him, help him, suggest he lie down, but Dean straightened up and reached for more bullets. Noah wasn't going to get a chance to even try to give the kid a break. They worked quickly, Dean building the silver-enhanced dust bomb, Noah gathering the stakes and guns, both listening to the sigh of the woods as night gathered close.

Dean seemed physically incapable of working quietly, though. He kept up a steady stream of questions as they pulled their arsenal together; Noah tried to answer in a way that wouldn't incite the curious hunter to use one of the weapons against him.

"Do you move around a lot, or do you have a…a den somewhere?"

"A _den_?"

"Whatever. I don't know. Shut up."

Noah grinned, taking pity on the hunter. "I move around a lot. Gave up my house a long time ago. Tried an apartment for awhile, but…that didn't work out."

"How do you get money?"

"You're a hunter," Noah tried turning it back on Dean, "how do _you_ get money?"

"Fake credit cards, hustle pool, once in awhile get paid for a random job."

"You've gotten paid for hunting?"

Dean glanced up at him from over the pile of silver slugs. "Not _that_ kind of job."

"Pretty much the same here," Noah replied, "though there were a few years there when I…didn't live such an honest life."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Let's just say it was the sixties and leave it at that."

"Hippie," Dean remarked, a smile lacing his voice.

"Vietnam changed things, though."

"I'll bet. You ever have a car?" Dean glanced up, eyes clear, interested, judgment free.

"You've got a thing about cars, don't you?"

"What if I did?"

Noah sighed. "Had a car once. It got impounded one full moon and I never bothered to get it back. Just…kinda…borrow them now. Or get by. Ride trains a lot."

"Trains, huh?"

"Gets me where I need to go," Noah replied. "I don't have friends, I keep a low profile. I have enough money to survive, but not saved in any place that needs my name. I don't have an ID. I figured out how to kill vamps – and how werewolves die – and kept focused on one thing."

"Killing your brother," Dean supplied.

"Right," Noah nodded.

"And then what?" Dean asked quietly.

Noah looked at him, unable to answer. For the first time in his life, he didn't know. He'd always thought he'd die taking out Luke. It had been a perfectly viable end to this journey. He saw that truth echo in the space between himself and Dean, saw Dean register it…and then dismiss it.

Noah cleared out a space around the pyre of vampire bodies so as not to catch the rest of the woods on fire, and as the sun tumbled behind the tree line, he lit a cigarette, then the wad of T-shirt fixed on the end of a chair leg and soaked in the lighter fluid Dean had dug out of the base of the duffel and tossed the torch onto the pile, stepping back slowly as the bodies caught fire.

He backed up to the house, leaning against the doorway, watching the fire, pulling the cigarette smoke into his lungs, the air around him permeated with the stench of roasting flesh. He glanced inside the house at Dean, watching as the hunter surreptitiously pulled the collar of his T-shirt over his mouth and nose. They may have been monsters, but they were human once, and no matter how many times it's done, a burning human body is not a scent another human can easily stomach.

_Especially when there are thirteen of them_, Noah thought.

Turning away from the sight, Dean filled the bowl with bits of silver. Lighting another torch off the pyre, Noah helped Dean start up a new fire in the stone fireplace, the non-existent chimney easily pulling the smoke away from them. It wasn't until they had four stakes tipped with silver and cooling against the stone that Noah heard the first of them.

He felt Dean freeze next to him, all motion completely gone. Straightening slowly from a crouch, Noah pulled his Beretta free and made his way over to the open doorway. Dean was on his heels, energy and tension radiating off of him in waves.

The light from the pyre lit the woods for a fair distance, but then dropped a curtain of black that Noah knew Dean couldn't see beyond. However Noah could make out shadows, figures moving through the trees. He swallowed and pulled in a breath – smoke, burning flesh, and under that, the sickly sweet stench of rot.

_Oh, fuck…._

"Eyes," Dean whispered.

Noah shot a questioning look over his shoulder at the other hunter, then looked back at the edge of darkness. Sure enough, he saw eyes reflecting back at him – red, narrowed, foreign. They were gathering forces, calling in the rest of the brood as reinforcements under the cover of darkness. It was hard to say how many, but the stir of echoes within the trees was continuous.

He looked down at the collection of weapons and the container with the combustible material ready to be linked to the dynamite. Glancing to his left, he saw Dean's gaze was on the same thing. The hunter looked over, meeting his eyes.

"We're gonna need a bigger bomb," they said in unison.

* * *

**a/n:** Thanks for reading! Next chapter brings a vampire showdown, and the return of an angel. After that, a brother comes back. Hope to see you there!


	9. Chapter 9

**Title: **Night of the Hunter  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Author**: gaelicspirit  
**Characters:** Dean, OC, with appearances by Sam, Bobby, and Castiel  
**Disclaimer/Warning:** They're not mine. More's the pity. Title of the story comes from a 30 Seconds To Mars song of the same name. This story is definitely PG-13 and might be considered borderline R in some parts for language, violence, and one mature scene in the first chapter.

**Author's Note: **Thanks for coming back. This is the final showdown with the vamps, but not the end for Dean by far. Also, heads up: this is the longest chapter in the story. I could have broken it up a bit, but…I didn't want to. *grins* I hope you enjoy.

* * *

_Honest to God I'll break your heart  
Tear you to pieces and rip you apart_

30 Seconds to Mars, _Night of the Hunter_

www

**CHAPTER NINE**

The night was tangible.

Dean felt it wrap around him like a cloak, enfolding the edges of the crumbling house, the fading embers of the vampire pyre, and the werewolf-hunter by his side in a suffocating embrace. He stared out at the reflecting eyes moving away in the dark and felt his heart hammering at the base of his throat. Everything seemed to stop as he stared into the void.

Time itself was in shock.

He'd faced crazy odds before, both in terms of number and might. He'd survived – often by the skin of his teeth – but in each of those times, he'd had Sam with in him the fight. That or he was fighting _for _Sam. Now, though, it was just him and a hunter his father would have put down on principle alone against fifty vampires. Or more.

There was little doubt in his mind that he was not going to make it through this fight alive.

Dean curling his shaking hand into a fist, denying the tremor. He was exhausted, hurting, hungry. He knew what he _needed_ to do to survive this, but for one completely honest moment, he acknowledged that he didn't have it in him. Not this time. He could taste fear at the back of his throat. It tasted like blood.

In a flash of desperation, he wanted to call Sam. Say goodbye. Tell him that he didn't blame him for leaving. Wish him luck. Tell him to stay away from this life for as long as he could. But his phone was back with the Impala, and there was no time to retrieve it.

Or the extra dynamite stored in the trunk.

"Aw, shit," Dean breathed.

"What?" Noah asked, his eyes still on the space the creatures had been moments ago. Dean was pretty sure Noah could see further into the dark than the dying firelight allowed his human eyes to penetrate.

"There's more dynamite in the Impala."

Noah shot him a look. "You didn't bring it all?"

Dean turned away. "I wasn't planning on them calling in the reserves, y'know."

"Fuck," Noah exhaled, sagging against the doorway. "I could get there and back on the motorcycle, but it's gonna eat into our time."

"I'll go," Dean volunteered. He wasn't keen on giving the keys to his baby over to Noah in any case.

"Right," Noah scoffed, his eyes sweeping Dean from head to toe before he turned toward the stone fireplace and picked up a stake.

"Don't give me that shit, man," Dean snapped, knowing Noah thought him too weak to make the ride. "If I have to get it, I will."

Noah rolled the top of the stake in the melted silver, the firelight reflecting in his blue eyes. "More dynamite isn't going to matter," he said, "if we can't get them clustered in one place. They could scatter and surround us."

Dean slid down the wall, letting his legs fall straight before him. He could remember only one other time he'd felt this beaten, this tired, hurt this much from the inside out. And that had ended in a crushed Impala and his father making a deal to save his life. At the thought of his father's sacrifice, Dean fixed his eyes on the ground, working to steady his breathing, slow his racing heart.

John Winchester hadn't died for nothing. _Dean_ hadn't died for nothing. He'd not been hauled out of Hell by an angel just to die at the hands of some _nosferatu_-style vampires. Destiny aside, he was a _hunter_, dammit. A hunter with a job to do. And he couldn't do that job if he was dead.

Pressing his hands flat against the floor on either side of his legs, Dean closed his eyes, centering his focus on the worst of his pain – his neck and throat – and forced himself to dismiss it. Forced himself to ignore the dull, throbbing ache in his over-extended shoulders. Forced himself to shove the sting and burn of the cuts on his back and chest into a well deep inside him where all of his darkness sat waiting, frothing, hungry to claw its way upward and tear into anyone or anything it could. He needed to pull himself together to get out of this, get back to the world.

He needed to be in one piece to continue on. Fight the good fight. Because if he didn't, he was pretty sure Sam would.

If his brother ever got wind of Dean having gone out fighting vampires…. Dean didn't want to think about it. If nothing else, he had to survive this so that Sam could stay living his normal life. Stay out of the game. Get clear of his blood addiction.

Sam wasn't the one with the destiny. He _could_ leave.

"…was just gonna go in, take out the sentries, find Luke, poison the food supply. Never really thought about them calling in reinforcements."

Too late, Dean realized Noah had been talking. Lamenting really, Dean realized, watching as the other hunter continued to roll the same stake in the melted silver until it was triple coated.

"I think you got it, man," Dean said quietly.

Noah jerked at the sound of his voice, clearly caught in his own thoughts, then looked down at the tip of the stake.

"Dammit." Noah set the stake aside and pushed to his feet, shoving his hands through his hair. "This is so fucked up. I should never have gotten you into this mess."

Using the wall behind him for support , Dean struggled to his feet. He refused to acknowledge the tremble of his legs, the ache in his chest. Once standing, he leaned against the wall, working to steady his vision.

"I shoulda just used the wolf…gone in there last night," Noah continued. "Gone after them. Shoulda never come back here. I shouldn't have stopped until they were gone, all of them."

Remembering how the wolf had barely made it back to the abandoned house before collapsing, Dean frowned. "Hang on," he said, trying to grab Noah's attention. "This is my fight, too—"

"NO!" Noah whirled on him, advancing quickly, causing Dean to press back against the wall. Noah shoved a hand against Dean's wounded chest and Dean bit back a gasp of pain at the rough contact.

"No, it's _not_ your fight," Noah protested. "Yeah, I get it. You're a hunter. They're _all_ your fight, but this one? This one is _mine_."

There was fear in Noah's eyes, Dean realized. Not anger, not conviction – fear. Seeing those creatures creeping through the dark into the nest, knowing what they were up against, it scared Noah as much as Dean. And there was balance in that realization. Dean's own fear began to dissipate and he suddenly felt inexplicably calm.

Dean put his hand on Noah's wrist, his anger at being _handled_ battling with his understanding of Noah's frustration. "Dude, back off," he said quietly.

But Noah was beyond quiet reminders. He was hurt and angry and Dean could see him losing the tight grip he'd maintained on his patience. Noah didn't remove his hand, even when Dean squeezed his wrist tighter. Instead his jaw jumped with tension, his eyes growing almost unnaturally bright as he pulled his lips back in a snarl.

"You have _no idea_ what I've survived," Noah growled low, his voice rumbling from his chest, "_no idea_ how I've had to live, just to make it to _this moment_."

"You want a medal?" Dean shot back, thrusting his face forward, closing out Noah's personal space. "Trying to earn your survival badge? You think you're _special_?"

"_HELL YES,"_ Noah roared, his hand twisting into a fist of Dean's clothes, pulling Dean slightly away from the wall with the force of his grip, the waxing moon cutting half his face into light. "_Yes_ I think I'm fucking special. How many hunters do you know who've survived two wars? Huh? How many hunters have killed over a hundred vamps?"

"_NONE!"_ Dean yelled back, his damaged throat protesting by closing off his air for a moment, forcing him to swallow hard, thirsty for air. Reaching up, he grabbed the loose folds of Noah's sweatshirt with both hands, fueled by his own story, his own indignation, his own survival. "You want to know why? Because they're all _fucking_ _dead_!"

Dean pushed hard against Noah's chest, shoving the other hunter back, causing Noah to slip on the blood paste, stumbling backwards.

"They're dead because when they get stabbed by vamp claws, they bleed out," Dean rasped, his wounded throat giving out under his wrath as he stepped forward, his hold on the other hunter backing him up with every step. "They're dead because when they are attacked by demons, their bodies can't handle it. They're dead because they're beaten. Shot. Burned. They're dead because they're _human_."

Dean's last word was a breathless rasp, but his body was strong, sturdy, as he shoved Noah back. His anger burned hot, fueling a strength he didn't really have. He kept his grip on Noah's sweatshirt, knowing instinctively that the moment he lost that contact he would stagger, losing his edge.

"_They're_ the special ones," Dean rumbled, his destroyed voice burning his ravaged throat. "The ones who keep fighting despite the odds. The ones who go on even when they know it's gonna end bloody. Even though they may not come out of this one alive."

"Like _you_, you mean," Noah quietly pointed out, his hands covering Dean's fists.

At that, Dean deflated, his energy slipping free with the truth that death had no dominion over him. Not anymore, not really. Not after crawling free from his own grave, scars of his past erased with an angel's touch. Not with angels wanting to use his body as a vessel. He let his hands fall loose from Noah's sweatshirt and stepped back once, twice, until his back hit a wall behind him. Crossing the room, Dean had moved unknowingly into the shadows of the house, turning his wounded body into a phantom, a disembodied voice curling toward Noah from the darkness.

"There's so much shit you don't know, man," Dean whispered. "I'd give anything to be like that now."

Noah stood quietly for several minutes. Dean watched his face work through a myriad of thoughts in the moonlight. "Hell didn't beat you, Dean," Noah stated.

"It's not just Hell," Dean confessed. "It's the ones who pulled me out."

Noah looked down, then away, his voice, though quiet, was like a slap against the night. "You were…rescued…for a reason, I take it?"

Dean nodded, though Noah wasn't looking at him. He couldn't bring himself to say it. It had been hard enough confessing Hell. And that had only really worked because he'd been beaten bloody by vampires and was talking to a werewolf. That wasn't the kind of _truth_ spoken while sitting in a coffee shop with college coeds. It wasn't the kind of _truth_ that people who lived the nine to five, white picket fence life could accept.

It was twisted and unnatural and bizarre. And it was his reality.

Adding angels and Armageddon into the mix…he was pretty sure even Noah would call bullshit.

"They, uh," Dean dropped his gaze to the smear of blood across the floor and out through the doorway, "they think I owe them."

"Owing someone is worse than Hell," Noah commented, subdued.

"You got that right," Dean agreed.

They stood quietly for a moment, the fire from their initial reaction to seeing the seemingly insurmountable numbers approach the abandoned mill escaping slowly like the release valve on a steam boiler. Dean stared in Noah's direction, not really seeing the hunter, not really seeing _anything_ as he thought of their options, scrolling mentally through his father's journal, seeking Bobby's advice in his head, and finally thinking carefully about what Sam would do in this situation.

The solution hit him so hard he almost stumbled.

"They can't scatter and surround us if they don't escape in the first place," Dean muttered.

"What was that?" Noah stepped forward, his eyes reflecting the moonlight.

Dean looked up at him, peering out through the shadows of the house, the dying embers of the vamp's pyre glowing at the corners of his eyes. "They can't surround us," he repeated, slowly, "if they don't escape in the first place."

Noah stepped forward, tilting his head curiously. "Say more."

Dean's eyes darted around the darkened room cataloging their weapons, assessing what they would need. It just might work….

"Vamps hate fire, right?"

Noah nodded, narrowing his eyes as he watched Dean think.

"I say we surround the mill with fuel, light it up and trap them inside."

"Inside…_with_ us?"

Dean nodded. "We head in, light it behind us, plant the bomb, escape through the back. After you kill Luke."

"There's gotta be fifty, sixty vamps in there," Noah said, shaking his head. "How are we gonna get in to find Luke before they swamp us?"

"Gimme a break, man." Dean frowned, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm making this up as I go along."

But Noah had caught the fire of Dean's idea and was starting to pace in a tight four-step pattern. "Blood."

"Come again?"

Noah gestured to the floor. "Vamp blood. It's everywhere."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious."

"Don't you get it?" Noah crouched down and rubbed two fingers in the paste. "They'd smell us coming – you especially. They have your scent now."

Dean pulled his brows close, not closing the logic gap quickly enough, watching as Noah rubbed the blood paste between his fingers. And then it hit him: cover their scent with the vamp blood.

"There's not enough," he muttered, eyes tracking the floor. "And it's all…," he waved his hand at the dirt-and-blood mix.

"Not out here," Noah motioned his head toward the doorway.

He stood in one fluid motion, his movement effortless as he hurried toward the doorway. Dean suppressed an envious growl as he stiffly followed. With the firelight dying off, the near-full moon illuminated the clearing around the house, turning the ground silver. Noah gestured to a depression of rock where a pool of vamp blood was still mostly liquid. Dean looked from the blood pool to the darkness beyond where he'd seen the eyes.

"It won't work for long," he commented, his skin crawling with the idea of voluntarily coating his skin with the blood from dead vampires.

"Long enough to get us in," Noah argued.

Dean nodded once. "So, we get in, you find Luke, I set the bomb, we grab as many as we can, get the hell out."

"Wait, what?" Noah looked at him sharply. "Grab as many what?"

Dean frowned. "Victims."

Noah lifted his hands in mock surrender, shaking his head with a disbelieving, humorless grin. "Ah, no. No, no, no."

Dean rotated, squaring off in front of the other man. "What do you mean, _no_?"

"Kid, they're gone. They can't be saved."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Dean snapped, his breath clouding before his face as the heat from the fire vacated. He could barely rasp above a whisper but Noah was close enough he felt he was practically shouting. "You got me out!"

"I wasn't…," Noah stopped, closed his mouth with a click of teeth, then executed a perfect about-face and headed back into the dark of the house.

Dean followed slowly, stopping in the doorway, the light of moon stretching his shadow out before him. "Wasn't…what?"

Noah had his back to him, one hand on his neck, his shoulders bowed.

"Noah?" Dean prompted, realizing that it was probably the second time he'd said the man's name.

"I wasn't planning on getting you out," Noah confessed, his voice muffled. "I was going to…leave you there."

Dean felt his eyebrows go up. That put a different spin on things.

Noah turned around, one arm wrapped around his body like he was holding an invisible shield. "You gotta understand," he started, one hand up, palm out toward Dean. "I tried so many times before – tried to save someone they'd been feeding off of. And it never worked. It was," Noah shook his head, rolling his lips against his teeth as he looked away. "It was horrible. They'd scream in pain and fear and they'd burn up from fever right in front of me and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it." He looked down. "Not a damn thing."

"Well, then, why…?" Dean asked helplessly, leaning against the doorway, distorting his shadow and throwing moonlight across Noah's face.

"You warned me," Noah said his eyes bright as they found Dean's face. "You called out to me. Told me to get out. I couldn't just…I couldn't _leave you_ there."

Dean was quiet for a moment, memory swimming through a sea of confused and painful images, thinking back to the meat locker and the moment he'd realized he was going to live. A shadowed figure. A desperate hope. _Sam_.

"Son of a bitch," he whispered.

"What?" Noah asked, brows pulled close, face tense.

Dean closed his eyes, dragging a hand down his cheeks, rubbing at the three-days growth of beard. He wanted to say he'd known it wasn't Sam the moment the hands pressed against his chest; he'd spent too many years moving in stride with his brother to not recognize his grip. But the truth was, he'd known it wasn't Sam simply because there was no way Sam would have found him, could have saved him.

"I thought you were Sam," Dean confessed quietly.

"You thought I was—"

Dean opened his eyes and looked at Noah. "I saw someone moving, knew it wasn't those bat-freaks…I thought it was Sam."

"And you were," Noah looked down, realization softening his voice, "you were warning _Sam_ off."

Dean chewed on his lower lip a moment. "No way I was gonna let him get killed trying to save me. Not after…." He couldn't finish the thought; the very idea of Sam dying to save him turned him cold. "Still, the point is, I survived. If I did, someone else could, too."

Noah tilted his head, looking sad. His voice cracked slightly as he said, "Don't think it works like that, kid."

"What doesn't?"

"You didn't survive because the voodoo paste finally worked. It's not like you were lucky number twenty-three or something."

Dean looked away, knowing where Noah was going with this, not wanting to hear it. A cold fist wrapped frozen fingers around his heart.

"Let me ask you this," Noah said, his chin tipping down, eyes on Dean. "How many other hunters know you've been to Hell and back? How many know you've _died_, Dean?"

Dean didn't reply. Couldn't. This guy was getting to the heart of his paralyzing self-doubt: the fear that he was as much of a supernatural creature as those he hunted. It was, he realized now, what stayed his hand when he saw Noah's truth. When Noah had faced him in his werewolf form, his wild eyes filled with despair and pain, Dean had seen himself reflected there. Had recognized in the wolf's howl the scream that echoed every day in his heart.

"You try to save those guys, you're just gonna throw your life away." Noah shook his head. "I can't let you die for something like that."

"But that's kinda the whole point," Dean said quietly. His throat was on fire. Swallowing hard he looked up and pinned Noah with a steely gaze. "It's not just about revenge. It can't be. The world's gonna end bloody, man. I know it. You know it. But if we don't at least _try_ to save one…just _try_…then why bother with any of this?"

Noah didn't reply. Dean tried to figure out what the other hunter was thinking, but there was too much swimming in Noah's eyes, too much history in his expression. The only thing Dean knew was that somewhere in this mess of a night, _kill them all_ became meaningless if he forgot about those he might save by doing so.

"Aw, for fuck's sake," Noah finally growled, rubbing his face rigorously.

He turned and kicked at a broken piece of chair, sending it flying across the room, shattering against the far wall. The motion seemed to trigger something in the hunter and Dean held still as Noah grabbed up another piece of broken furniture, throwing it hard against the wall with a low roar of anger. He snapped two chair legs that had not yet been turned into stakes like matchsticks, throwing them through the one remaining window and shattering the glass. Then he stood, chest heaving from his exertions, hands hanging limply at his sides, his back toward Dean.

"Feel better?" Dean ventured.

"A little. Yeah," Noah gasped, rolling his shoulders.

"I'm going with you," Dean said quietly. "And I'm going after the victims."

Noah glanced over his shoulder. "Your Jedi mind tricks won't work on me."

Dean felt a grin jerk at the corner of his mouth.

"Besides," Noah continued, looking down, "the back cave entrance is collapsed. I cut it off when I went in the first time."

"So I'll take them out the front. We can handle a little fire."

"We used most of the lighter fluid on the pyre."

"We'll empty the motorcycle tank," Dean countered, pushing away from the wall. "Listen, man, you don't have to like it. But this is happening."

Noah pivoted to look directly at Dean. "You gonna make me watch you die, Dean?" he asked softly.

Dean swallowed, remembering vividly the night he'd held Noah's bloody hand, sure the other man was going to bleed out in front of him. "Not if I can help it."

Noah looked away and Dean watched his eyes track up to the moon, as if seeking the familiarity of a companion. "This how you get Sam to listen to you? Relentless resistance?"

Dean huffed out a laugh. "Sam doesn't listen to me. Not anymore."

Noah slide is eyes to Dean, not saying anything.

"He used to," Dean allowed. "When he was a kid. But…then I took his choices away."

Noah frowned, his stillness an invitation for Dean to continue.

"I couldn't live with him dead," Dean shook his head, touching his throat gingerly. The damaged skin seemed to burn as he continued to talk. "I was…selfish." He looked at Noah, the man's eyes still on his face. "I don't regret it, though. None of it. But, yeah. I kinda lost my _I'm older so I know better_ card when I died in front of him and left him alone."

"So, this need to save people is what? Some kind of twisted survivor's guilt?"

Dean shrugged. "All I know is, Sammy would try. So I've gotta."

Noah dipped his head. "You ever tell him any of this?"

"Hell no," Dean said, a sad smile ghosting his lips. "And if you say anything, I'll deny it."

Noah's smile was warm, genuine. As if the thought of one day meeting Sam shifted something inside of him.

"All right. We do it your way. But I take point."

Dean tossed him a salute.

www

"What's the scariest fight you've been in?"

Dean was so tired. He wanted to curl up and sleep for just an hour. But Noah was still moving, getting supplies ready, checking and re-checking ammo. And Dean knew that if he did lie down, he might not get back up again. So he talked. Sam always said Dean was the noise of their family. So he made some.

"As a hunter?" Noah replied, his tone suggesting he'd clued in to Dean's coping mechanism. He sounded casual, relaxed, despite the fact that he was currently rigging up a spare belt to be a holster for silver-tipped stakes.

"Or not," Dean said, continue to shave silver from the pile of bullets to add to his dust bomb.

Noah had forced him to sit, drink two bottles of water – the man apparently thought water cured everything – and rest as much as he could while he worked. He'd also downed four more ibuprofen, trying to head off the worst of the aches. But sleep was what he really needed.

"Honestly, and don't kill me for this," Noah glanced up at Dean briefly before setting his belt aside and leaning over to finish emptying his backpack, "after I figured out what I was…I was never really _scared_ in a fight as a hunter."

Dean tipped his head in concession, watching as Noah pulled clothes, a pair of thin leather gloves, an old canteen, and beat-up notebook from the bottom of his pack. His dog tags had fallen loose from his T-shirt and were swinging with the motion from his body, catching the light of the moon and drawing Dean's exhausted eyes. Seeing them made him miss the familiar heavy feel of his amulet. In a way, that identified him as much as any set of dog tags would.

"Guess when you can't die, it kinda redefines what you're afraid of," Dean commented.

Noah nodded, finally finding what he was looking for: a Swiss army knife. He smiled at it, then held it up for Dean to see. Etched in gold on the side were the letters L. A. K.

Dean narrowed his eyes, hazarding a guess. "Luke's?"

"Yeah," Noah said. "He gave it to me when I left for the war."

"What's the A stand for?"

Noah swallowed, his throat bobbing. "Andrew."

Dean felt his air leave him, and looked down at the silver shards coating his fingers. _Family is _supposed_ to make you crazy_, Bobby had said. It was probably the truest thing Dean had ever heard the man say. There was a connection with family – with blood – that defied logic. It was the most unnatural _natural_ thing Dean had experienced. Family had beat him, betrayed him, abandoned him, saved him, loved him, known him.

Family had hurt him more than anything he'd ever experienced in his life – including Hell – and yet there was a bond there that held him up when he wanted to sink to the bottom. It was impossible to deny the fact that when it came down to it, he'd die for his family in a second if it meant sparing them pain.

"You sure you want to do this, man?" Dean asked, not looking at Noah. No matter what Sam did, Dean couldn't imagine hating his brother enough to kill him.

"Yes," Noah said quietly.

"You could walk away—"

"Ardennes. Christmas Eve of '44," Noah interrupted him.

"What?" Dean asked, caught off-guard.

"My scariest fight." Noah said, rubbing his thumb across Luke's initials. "I'd just turned 21 a couple days before. It was cold…I'd never been so fuckin' cold. And we just…we kept digging trenches and then having to bail out of them when the mortars came in. Ramsey and Banker were with me that night and we just…huddled." His voice dropped to a tone barely above a whisper. "Saw two guys blown in half. Faces gone. One guy's leg landed on me. The trees were so thick around us – half the time it wasn't the shelling, but the falling trees we had to avoid."

He busied his hands rigging up the belt, but Dean just sat, the dust bomb complete in front of him, silver shavings coating his hands and jeans, and listened. Every battle he'd fought in the unending war of his life had been against an enemy most people would deny even existed. Nearly every soldier who'd fought by his side had been someone he loved and was connected to by blood or devotion.

He felt kinship with those who'd fought in recognized wars, in battles against a human enemy, but until he heard Noah's quiet, rough voice eking out information in his staccato manner of confession, Dean hadn't really thought about the _toll_ war took on the human psyche.

It was one thing to blow away a monster. It was another when that monster was human.

"It got dark real fast and for a few hours there, we couldn't find our Captain," Noah continued, almost as if he'd forgotten Dean was in the room. "Shells were landing all around us – the world was just…exploding dirt and snow and blood. A big tree fell over the top of our hole and a branch stabbed me – not bad, but it hurt like a bitch. Banker pulled me out and we were just…running. Our guns didn't mean a damn thing; what the hell were we gonna shoot at?"

Dean nodded, caught up, though Noah wasn't looking at him. Dean didn't think he was looking at anything _here_ right now.

"Ramsey shouted something and then Banker was pulling me sideways. I couldn't really run in a straight line; everything was all fuzzy and I couldn't breathe…," Noah wiped a trembling hand across his mouth, his eyes a million miles away. "We fell into this empty ditch – well, we thought it was empty. But then this German guy jumps up and shouts at us, waving his Luger. We were all shouting back at him, pointing our rifles, nobody knew what anyone was saying, it was just…noise."

Noah shifted, lifting one of his knees, draping his arm across it. "And the thing I remember most is that over all that noise – the shelling, the screaming, all of it – I heard someone chamber a round. It was like how I hear _now_…with the wolf…only it was long before that happened. I heard it and I turned and there was this kid. A German kid. Looked like he was maybe fifteen. And he was standing outside the ditch with his rifle trained on Ramsey and I just…I froze. I don't think I'd ever been so scared in my life. Not even when my Pop was killed."

Dean narrowed his eyes at that, knowing there was a story there, unable to ask. When Noah stopped talking, Dean frowned. "So what happened?"

Noah cleared his throat. "Shell hit."

"Hit the kid?"

Noah lifted a shoulder. "Near enough. Ramsey shot the other guy. We stayed in the ditch until morning."

With the dead German, Dean realized, feeling an odd sort of horror creep over him. He'd dug countless graves, staked a zombie in its coffin, been covered in fresh vamp blood, and the idea of staying the night in that ditch made his heart shiver.

"Didn't realize it," Noah said, pushing to his feet, "but we'd run about forty yards across enemy lines. And we only ran into two Germans."

"A Christmas miracle," Dean commented wryly.

"Always a silver lining," Noah smiled humorlessly. "Here, stand up."

Dean moved the dust bomb off of his lap and tried to push to his feet, dismayed to feel his legs rebel with weakness. Noah reached out a hand and unthinking, Dean grabbed it. The effect was immediate.

"_Ah! Son of a bitch!"_ Noah gasped, jerking his hand away and stumbling back. Dean fell to his side, pushing up on an elbow and looking, confused, back at Noah. The hunter's hand was red, shaking, and Dean could see thin tendrils of smoke curling up.

"Oh, shit," he breathed, looking at his own hands. Silver. Covering his fingers. "Oh, man, I'm sorry."

"'S okay," Noah breathed, leaning against the wall shaking out his hand, lips curled in a grimace of pain. "'S okay."

The hell of it was, Dean had _almost_ forgotten. Sitting in the dark of the abandoned house, prepping weapons to take out a common enemy, he'd almost forgotten what Noah was. As he pushed himself upright, using the wall to gain his feet, he realized he _wanted_ to forget.

Dean didn't want to have to remember that no matter how he might feel about having died and come back, the fact of the matter was, he wasn't immortal. He had no regenerative powers. He was human.

But Noah….

Dean stiffly made his way to the bucket of water and dragged it to the doorway, pouring the liquid over his hands, then rubbing his palms against his jeans, ridding his skin of the silver. When he was finished, he was forced to lean against the doorway, closing his eyes.

He was in trouble. Supernatural hunting partner or not, if he didn't rest before this fight, he wasn't going to make it very far.

"Let's see if this fits you," Noah said, his voice tight with latent pain.

Dean schooled his features. He didn't want Noah to see his exhaustion. He turned, lifting his chin and squaring his shoulders.

"Jesus, kid," Noah breathed, instantly seeing past Dean's facade.

"I'm fine."

"You're a stubborn bastard, you know that?" Noah stepped forward, holding up the stake holster.

"I'm still fine," Dean pouted, holding his arms up so that Noah could fit the holster around him. "Watch the jeans," he cautioned, knowing the remnants of silver that clung there.

"Thanks," Noah mumbled, stepping back as Dean fastened the belt, tying the strips of leather around his thigh like an old-West gun. "Looks good on you."

Dean couldn't help but grin. The holster held three stakes on each side, all within easy reach, had a place in back for his gun, a hook for the dust bomb, and a space in front for his Bowie or machete. "It's bad ass, man."

"Ought to buy you some time at least," Noah commented. "How's the bomb coming?"

"It's done," Dean said, looking at the contraption. "So long as we don't forget a lighter, we're set."

Noah chuckled. "Wouldn't that just suck?"

"No pun intended," Dean grinned. He took a step forward, intending on grabbing his machete to see how it fit in the holster, and swayed dangerously on his feet. He would have fallen had Noah not reached up and grabbed his shoulder. "Fuck," Dean breathed, blinking hard and rubbing his forehead. The world was tilting sideways.

"You need to rest," Noah stated.

"We don't have time," Dean argued, though his knees wanted to buckle. "I'll take some more aspirin or something."

"Hey, those aren't magic beans, kid," Noah muttered. "Dawn's not for two more hours. We have time for you to rest."

Noah started to guide him toward the pallet when Dean turned, grabbing the other man's forearm. "You stay. Right here, man."

Noah blinked, clearly surprised at Dean's outburst.

"I mean it," Dean growled, the rasp of his damaged voice working in his favor and making him sound dangerous. "Don't you dare leave me here to go fight these bastards on your own."

Noah's face went blank, all expression draining from it. "Lie down, kid."

Dean wanted to resist, but his body forced him to obey. He almost melted to the floor, sinking into the pallet as if it were made of down feathers. His fingers fumbled with the latch of the holster, trying to remove it so that he wasn't lying on the stakes. Noah, watched his efforts for a moment, then grabbed the thin leather gloves, pulling them on and reaching over to help Dean unfasten the belt.

"I mean it," Dean repeated, feeling himself sinking quickly and needing to stress his point. Werewolf or not, a part of him knew that Noah would die if he went in there alone.

"I won't leave you behind, Dean," Noah said quietly. "I promise."

"Good. Gonna take both of us to get out of there," Dean mumbled, his eyes heavy.

As sleep reached for him, Dean saw Noah's expression darken.

"Don't think we're both getting out this time, kid."

Dean was out before he could think of a reply.

www

He was standing in the woods, a pit of smoking ash before him. The trees seemed to cluster close, like sentient beings, bending and leaning, branches reaching for him, for the pit. He could hear them. Creaking like aged joints, groaning with regret and pain.

Dean stared at the pit, mourning a loss he couldn't remember. Sadness permeated him, bleeding out with every breath. Someone was gone. And he wasn't getting them back.

The smoke cleared a bit, wafting up around him like a wraith, clouding his vision for a moment before evaporating completely and he realized that someone stood on the other side of the pit. Someone with a familiar slouch as if ever-conscious of how much taller he was than his companion. Someone with a shy, almost reluctant smile.

"Sam?"

Dean glanced around, trying to find the edges of the pit so that he could get over to Sam, but it seemed to grow, spreading wide on either side of him. He took a step forward, wanting to cross it, needing to grab his brother, feel him warm and real and solid. But the smoke rolled up again, this time curling around Sam's legs, climbing his body.

Sam looked at the smoke, confused, then up at Dean, pleading.

"Back off, Sam. Step away from the edge!"

It was like screaming into a hurricane. The sound of his voice was thrown back to him, echoing against his ears empty of meaning. He watched helplessly as Sam pushed at the smoke, his hands going right through it. He looked scared, panicked. Dean reached out, instinct driving him to stop this thing from happening to his brother.

And then the smoke turned into flames.

And the flames began to eat through Sam.

And Sam screamed.

"_NO!"_

"Dean!"

Dean opened his eyes at the sound of his name. Consciousness was abrupt and instant. No clouds, no cobwebs, no smoke. Just a hammering heart, sweat-soaked hair, and gasping breath. He looked over and up, seeing Noah hovering close, not touching him.

"Easy. It's just a dream," Noah said carefully.

"It was so real," Dean gasped, trying to catch his breath, his mouth dry. "It was so fucking real."

"Not real," Noah assured him, sitting back on his heels, his hands still raised but keeping a safe distance.

Dean nodded, sitting up slowly, rubbing his sweaty face. "Water?"

Noah handed him a bottle and Dean drank deeply. The darkness had turned gray, the world outside their crumbling safe haven waking up. "How long was I out?"

"Couple hours," Noah said. "How do you feel?"

"Like I need to shower for half a day," Dean grumbled, pouring a bit of the water on the back of his grimy neck. The cool liquid felt so good running across the damaged skin that he did it again until the bottle was empty.

"I got us some food," Noah told him. He still hadn't moved.

Dean looked over at him. "Did you sleep?"

Noah shook his head. "I won't need to for few more days. Perks of the curse, I guess."

"Where'd you find food?"

"Well," Noah stood, moving like water. Dean wondered if he ever moved as effortlessly or if he was too beaten down and broken by his life. "It occurred to me that we're in the middle of the woods."

"Yeah…," Dean intoned, curling his legs under him and trying to stand with as much grace as Noah had. He ended up staggering slightly to the side and using the wall as support, but at least he made it to his feet without his legs shaking like a newborn colt. "And?"

"And people have survived on what the woods offers for centuries."

"Guess you would know," Dean quipped, tossing the empty water bottle into a pile of clothes.

"Funny."

"So, what d'ya get? Bark and leaves?"

"How do you like your squirrel?" Noah asked, nodding toward the fireplace. "Medium or well-done?"

Dean glanced, surprised, at the hearth where Noah was roasting a squirrel over the fire. He hadn't smelled cooking meat, but figured the vampire pyre from last night had damaged his olfactory sensors a bit. The thought of eating squirrel had his stomach doing full-on double axels; some of his revulsion must have shown on his face.

"Listen, I know it's not filet mignon, but you're gonna need your strength," Noah argued.

"Sorry," Dean muttered. "I can't get the image of Rocky and Bullwinkle outta my head."

"Hey, it's not that bad." Noah moved toward the fire and pulled out his Swiss Army knife. "Believe me, I've eaten worse."

"Dude." Dean held up a hand. "Really don't need details."

Noah chuckled softly. "Not what I meant."

"Fine. Gimme a sec," Dean finally acquiesced.

He made his way out toward the back of the house, heeding the call of nature. After taking care of business, he pumped extra water to clean the sweat from his face and neck. The torn skin was healing slowly, crusting at the edges, tender to the touch, but wasn't burning quite as much. He was still tired, but just those few hours of sleep had offered him some energy he'd been sorely lacking. Returning to Noah, he accepted his pre-battle meal gratefully.

The plan was as simple as it was impossible. But Dean didn't see any other way. They were gambling on the vamps being sluggish in the morning. And based on the reinforcements they'd gathered, the odds of them winning that bet were pretty much sixty to two. After siphoning the gasoline from the motorcycle's tank into the empty water bucket, Dean checked the clip in his Colt, loaded an extra clip for Noah's Beretta, then strapped on the stake holster, tying the ends down around his thighs.

Sliding his gun and machete into place, he turned to watch Noah pull on his blood-stained denim jacket and begin to fill compartments with knives, impressed despite himself. It was becoming really clear how Noah had survived hunting alone all of these years.

"So you never said," Noah commented, evidently feeling the weight of Dean's eyes. "What was your scariest fight?"

Dean blinked, memories so thick around him he resisted the urge to reach up and brush them away. There had been plenty of times he'd been scared – when they were young and John was away hunting, when John had left him alone forcing him to seek out Sam, when Sam had contracted the Croatoan virus, seeing Sam hit his knees in the mud at Cold Oak, facing his demon self while tripping on dream root, waiting for the Hell Hounds – but those were all moments, instances. They weren't fights.

"There was this demon," he started, wondering how much he would rock Noah's world giving the hunter a glimpse of his, "named Lilith chasing us."

Noah didn't so much as raise an eyebrow.

"Sam and I got ourselves caught by this FBI Agent," Dean went on. "He had us in a cell in a small town in Colorado, waiting to take us back to Washington where he was jonsein' to throw us in jail and melt down the key."

"Why'd this guy have such a hard on for you two?"

Dean shrugged. "He saw the facts, y'know? Grave decimation, bodies left behind. Not like vamps conveniently turn to dust."

"Point taken."

"Anyway, Lilith got wind of where we were and she rallied the troops. One of the FBI dudes got himself possessed and shot me."

Noah looked up at that, watching.

"But that led to Sam and me getting out of the cell, so it wasn't all bad."

Noah rolled his eyes and grabbed more weapons, refraining from making the sarcastic comment clearly balanced on the edge of his lips. Dean started to pack up the bomb as he talked.

"We knew they were coming for us, and we knew that we were trapped in that little sheriff's station with four civilians. Er, well, non-hunters at least. I had to get us armed up. So headed out to the Impala to grab whatever I could from the trunk. And just as I lifted the lid, the air, like…crackled." Dean stopped moving, remembering. "I mean, I'd seen demons before. Plenty of times. Seeing that black smoke shoot out of some poor schmuck's screaming mouth isn't something you forget."

"I imagine not," Noah commented softly.

Dean shook himself a bit. "Anyway, I was standing out there, and I look up and the sky is purple and the clouds are…rolling. Like snakes. They're black and they're twisting around each other and snapping with electricity, and they're coming right for us. And all I can think is _get Sam and get the hell out_, but we can't leave those people, y'know?"

Noah didn't say anything. Dean grabbed his throwing knife from his duffel and slid it into his boot. Probably wouldn't make one bit of difference, but it made him feel better.

"I get back inside and we bar up the doors with salt and this mass just slams against the building. It was like standing in the middle of a tornado."

"Did they go away? Once they couldn't get inside?"

Dean glanced at him. "You haven't dealt with many demons have you?"

"Not one," Noah replied.

"Well, they don't like to lose," Dean informed him, grabbing Noah's gold lighter and a book of matches that had been stuffed into the side pocket of Noah's backpack, shoving both into his pocket. "So…next thing we know, the whole town is demonized and coming for us."

"Wait, you mean…like possession?"

"Got it in one."

"How'd you kill them?" Noah was standing, armed to the teeth and looking about as threatening as a history teacher. Dean had to give it to the man; with him, lethal force was a well-kept secret.

"We couldn't kill them," Dean said, picking up a rock salt filled, sawed-off shotgun from the duffel and tossing it to Noah, who caught it one-handed. "Sam recorded an exorcism for us to play over the loud speaker, we armed the FBI Agent and the others in the sheriff's office with rock salt-filled weapons, and we opened the doors."

"You let them _in_?"

Dean nodded.

"Who's crazy idea was that?" Noah half chuckled.

Dean shrugged.

"I should have known," Noah muttered, moving toward the door. Dean watched as he crouched in the doorway and dipped his fingers in the vamp blood, spreading it across his face.

Looking down, Dean shook his head once. "It was crazy for awhile there. I didn't know where Sam was, if he was okay. I was just trying to keep the people I ran into from tearing me up until the exorcism could do the trick. It was just a…mass chaos of running and firing and running. I somehow ended up against a wall next to Sam when it was all done. I didn't want him to know it, but, man, I don't think I'd ever been so scared during a fight."

"What happened then?" Noah stepped aside, letting Dean bend down and dip his fingers into the blood.

Dean frowned at the cold, slimy feel of the vamp blood. He began to cover his face and hands, thinking of Victor Henrikson and how he could have been an ally, and a friend. "They let Sam and me go. But we found out that Lilith finally made it there. And she wiped them out."

"Everyone?" Noah asked, his voice betraying his shock.

"Everyone at the sheriff's station," Dean told him, standing and staring at the other man.

The dark blood covering Noah's face contrasted sharply with his blue eyes, making him look slightly manic. Dean wondered if he looked as dangerous as the hunter standing before him. He _felt_ dangerous. He felt tough, scary, deadly.

"Kinda makes me glad I've never run into a demon," Noah confessed. "I thought _vamps_ were evil."

Dean chewed the inside of his lip. "Y'know, this one time, I was talking to my dad about demons and I called them animals. He said that it was dangerous to think of them that way. Said we had to respect them a little to be able to fight them."

Noah held still, listening.

"He said that most of the bad guys we fought _were_ just like animals, but demons were different. They actually thought what they were doing was right, and that righteousness made them more dangerous than any other monster."

"Your dad sounds like a smart man," Noah said.

"He was," Dean replied, resisting the urge to rub at the pain in his heart.

"That Lilith's bad news, huh?"

Dean felt a cold smile cross his face. "She got hers. Sammy killed her."

"_Sam_?" Noah exclaimed. "Your brother, Sam?"

Dean's grin spread, as if proud. He didn't bother to mention that killing Lilith also broke the last seal and because of that, Lucifer was once more walking the earth. For someone who hadn't fought one demon, Satan was probably a bit too much to handle.

"You guys live a crazy life," Noah said finally, turning to face the direction of the mill.

"Says the werewolf hunter with a vampire brother," Dean retorted.

Noah tilted his head. "Nobody's perfect."

They stood, shoulder-to-shoulder, the clearing seeming to stretch out before them, Dean wrapped in a holster filled with silver-tipped stakes, Noah with a sawed-off shotgun resting on his shoulder and multiple weapons secreted on his person, both covered in vamp blood.

"You ready for this?" Noah asked. "Get in, kill them all, get out."

"Just like Beggar's Canyon back home," Dean nodded.

They didn't move.

Dean took a breath. Without looking at Noah, he said, "You're getting out of there with me, man."

Noah turned to him, the blood on his face making him look at once terrifying and vulnerable. He held out a hand to Dean. "No matter what happens in there, it was an honor to know you, Dean Winchester."

Dean wanted to scoff, push the man's hand away, deny that this could end in anything other than victory. But he saw in Noah's eyes that this was the man's last shot. If he didn't take out the nest this time, Noah wanted to die trying. He'd been living with the ghost of his brother's actions for too long. He took Noah's hand.

"Likewise," he replied, swallowing his emotion.

Noah bent and grabbed the handle of the bucket full of fuel. Then, with a collective breath, ignoring any trepidation, burying pain and ache and weariness, they stepped forward as one.

www

Dean pressed his back against the wall next to the entrance of the mill, waiting for Noah to finish spreading the fuel around the perimeter of the mill. He had expected to be terrified, to have to force himself to calm his racing heart. Instead, he was cold, his heart almost sluggish.

If he thought about what they were up against too long, it would paralyze him. So he focused instead on the plan. With his Colt in one hand, he rested his other on the end of one of his stakes and nodded at Noah when the other hunter joined him, tossing the bucket aside.

The morning sun burned bright and hot against their blood-smeared faces. Dean released the stake and grabbed the matches, watching as Noah pulled his Beretta, then mouthed _one, two_, _three_. With Noah's nod, Dean lit the book of matches, flinging them onto the fuel-covered dried grass and watched with satisfaction as the flames crawled hungrily around the building.

Noah slipped inside and Dean followed, moving in reverse, his back to Noah's, covering them from both sides. It seemed their vamp blood camouflage was working: they were able to get almost to the center of the big room before two sentries confronted them.

Dean felt Noah move away from him as he pulled his machete free, beheading the vamp with a strong swipe. His shoulder twinged and he realized quickly that he was going to have to conserve his energy. He turned and continued forward, keeping abreast of Noah, as three more vamps rushed them from the shadows.

"Stake!" Noah shouted.

Dean grabbed one of his stakes from the holster and without slowing or stopping, drove it through the heart of the first vampire he reached. He'd stopped seeing them as the people they'd once been. Now they were all the featureless, hissing monsters reeking of rot and death. He left the staked vamp to quiver, paralyzed on the floor and shot the next one three times with silver bullets.

Two more dropped down directly in front of him and Dean shot one, ducking the blow of the next, then swiping with his machete and missing his aim, slicing the attacking creature across the face. The vampire shrieked and Dean heard an echoing shriek above and below him. Tossing his Colt and machete from one hand to the other so that he could swipe with his stronger right hand, he beheaded the screaming vamp, then looked up.

Hanging from the rafters above him were dozens of vampires, all ages, both male and female.

"Oh, shit," he breathed, stretching out the word as he backed up.

"Dean!" Noah yelled. "Set it!"

"But what about—" He looked wildly at Noah, watching as the hunter produced a knife from somewhere down the sleeve of his jacket and stabbed a vampire in the throat, ripping the blade through the creature's flesh and leaving it to choke.

"I'll find him. Just _set it_."

Noah whirled as more vamps dropped down between them, their faces no longer human, ready to kill, to feed, to rip and tear and destroy. The closed-up air inside the mill suddenly reeked of death, the stench rolling off the creatures as they moved to attack, causing Dean to gag as he ran forward, seeking a center point to set the bomb.

He was nearly at the room Noah had blown up last time when four vamps burst through the door, their faces very much human in appearance. Dean recognized Luke right away.

"Noah!" he yelled.

"This one is mine," Luke hissed at his companions. "Wake the others."

The three with Luke turned back through the door and Dean had one second to see them drop down through a hole in the floor – evidently created by the previous explosion – before Luke lunged at him.

Dean blocked his blow, rolling on his shoulder to turn away and not strike Luke. He knew this was not his kill; he couldn't take this from Noah. But if the other hunter didn't show up soon, Dean wasn't going to have a choice.

Luke back-handed him and Dean felt himself suspended slightly with the force of the blow before crashing down, landing painfully on the stakes in his holster. The world spun drunkenly around him as he scrambled to his feet, catching sight of Noah in the middle of three vamps, a fresh cut across his forehead bleeding freely, blending with the dried vamp blood.

"Noah!" Dean shouted, grabbing one of his stakes and throwing it toward the other hunter before Luke caught him in a flying tackle and drove him to the floor.

Dean didn't see if Noah caught the wood or if he noticed who Dean was fighting. He was too busy trying to keep Luke's mouth away from his ravaged throat.

Grunting with effort, he got an arm between Luke's throat and his own, bringing a knee up for leverage. He managed to get the vamp off of him and rolled sideways, jumping to his feet and grabbing his machete, holding it out in front of him as Luke circled. Behind him, he heard another vamp drop from the ceiling. Without thinking, Dean turned, swiping the sharp blade of the machete through the neck of the vamp, then returned his focus to Luke.

"What the hell are you waiting for, huh?" Dean gasped, his voice sounding nothing like himself.

Luke's full mouth twisted up in a grin, vamp teeth descending, though his face remained human. It was disconcerting. He didn't answer Dean, just continued to turn them in a circle until Dean's back was to the door Luke had come through. Dean felt the hairs standing up on the back of his neck.

Something was really, really wrong.

Taking a chance that Luke wasn't going to immediately attack, Dean pulled his attention from the grinning vamp and reached for the dynamite-wrapped dust bomb attached to the holster. But before he could grab it, he saw what Luke had been waiting for.

_Wake the others…._

"Son of a…. _Noah!_" He yelled, backing away from the door, toward where he'd last seen his friend neck-deep in monsters. _"We're gonna have company!"_

Climbing up through the hole in the floor – like a swarm of ants spilling from a hill – were the ancient _nosferatu_. Their naked bodies were covered in translucent, leatherish skin, veins traversing their torsos. Their feral, almost feline features made them practically identical. Extensions of skin connected their arms from the elbow to their rib cages, their ears were elongated and ridged, their eyes narrow slits, and their teeth….

Dean gripped his machete, firing left-handed into the swarming mass of hissing bodies that poured out of the hole, crawling up the walls, across the ceiling.

Their approach dislodged several of the hanging vamps, dropping the human-like creatures to the floor around Dean. He emptied his clip, but they kept coming. He felt them surge around him, lifting him up, clawing at his arms, his legs, moving him across them as if he were crowd surfing. He wasn't able to scream: his throat closed almost completely. He thrashed, trying to get to one with his machete, trying to get to his stakes, but it was as if he had no control over his body.

Their hands, their strength, their claws, their _smell_ – he just had to keep their mouths away from him. Just keep their mouths away. He wouldn't survive the feel of their mouths sucking, pulling his blood from him.

"DEAN!"

He threw one wild look toward where he heard his name and saw Noah standing in the middle of a pile of dead vamps, one arm ravaged and hanging useless, his Beretta pointed at the swarm. More vamps were falling from the ceiling above him.

"Shoot!" Dean rasped, hoping Noah had heard, had understood.

He would rather _die_ than go back to that meat locker. But that was just where they were taking him, he realized. He heard the crack of Noah's gun, but didn't feel the impact of a bullet. Instead, he felt his body dip as they dragged him head-first, back through the hole in the floor and into what had almost become his grave.

But as soon as they were below, in the dark, the creatures dropped him, scattering and retreating to small burrows dug into the side of the cave walls. Dean looked around, confused. It was as if they were recharging. Dean wondered how much of an effect the sunlight had on these creatures in comparison to their younger companions.

He pushed up to his hands and knees, feeling the sting of new cuts on his arms and legs where their claws had dug in. His head was pounding, his lip bleeding from Luke's backhand. He braced himself, refusing to give in to the shock threatening to consume his body. He swallowed hard, looking around the meat locker. The hole above him offered some light and what he saw staggered him.

It was a rebellion.

The racks that where human victims hung suspended from their arms and throats had collapsed – most likely from the combination of dynamite explosions – and the people left alive had freed themselves. The three vamps sent down to wake the ancient ones lay dead on the ground. Behind the survivors was a horrifying pile of human remains. Two men and one woman stood facing Dean, emaciated, bloody, ropes still attached to their wrists and neck. He could tell by their eyes that they weren't all there, not all together sane.

But they weren't vamps. And they weren't dead.

"Help me," he rasped, pushing to his feet. He removed the bomb from his holster. "Help me and I'll get you out, I swear to God I'll get you out."

The man closest to him pulled back his lips in a grimace, stepping forward. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and wild. Dean took a step back, trying to see everywhere at once, knowing the _nosferatu_ were close and hungry.

He _felt_ them. His skin shivered with their nearness, pulling tight in memory of their mouths. The creatures began to hiss and the half-dead man in front of Dean echoed the sound as if he couldn't help himself, more vamp than human at this point.

_Aw, fuck me…._

The man took another step forward and Dean saw a tattoo on his bared chest – one that looked vaguely familiar. Dean wracked his brain, trying to pull the puzzle together. Darting his eyes back to the man's face, taking in the condition of the man's body – the fact that he was in the best shape of all the survivors – the pieces fell into place.

"Alec?" He whispered. The man stopped hissing. "You're Alec, right? Ali's brother?"

"Ali?" the man rasped.

One-by-one, the _nosferatu_ started to crawl from their burrows, climbing the walls, their nails skittering along the rock with a familiar chittering sound. Dean set the bomb down on the ground at Alec's feet. He unrolled the long fuse – designed to give them enough time to escape – then grabbed his extra clip from his belt, dumped the empty one and shoved the new one into the butt of his Colt.

"I'm gonna get you outta here, Alec," Dean promised. "You're gonna be okay."

He couldn't quit thinking about what was happening to Noah. He took a breath, looking over at the other two victims, then closed his eyes briefly. He had to _try_.

"You follow me, okay? All of you. Move when I move and _do not stop_. Do you understand?"

They just stared at him. The horror visited upon them had hollowed their eyes. Noah had been right: they were lost. All but Alec. He managed to nod.

_Here goes nothin'_.

Dean pulled out Noah's lighter and lit the fuse. Dropping it he turned to the closest vamp and fired directly into its face, felling it but not killing it. The wounded creature shrieked, the others – including Alec and the other human victims – echoing it. It was a sound from his nightmares; it was part pain, part indignation, part promise.

Dean wanted to cover his ears, curl up in a ball until it was quiet again, but he forced himself to ignore the way the sound made his skin try to turn inside out to get away, and grabbed a stake from his holster, driving it into the sternum of the next creature that crawled toward him.

He gaped, shocked, as that creature writhed and screamed – literally _screamed_ – as the silver on the stake turned its veins black, its body following suit, shriveling and curling up like a dried-out corn husk.

"Son of a bitch," Dean breathed in utter surprise, grabbing another stake. He glanced around as the other creatures shrank back, the shrieks in the cavern becoming almost white-noise they were so loud. He looked at Alec and the others. "C'mon!"

Turning, Dean headed for the door. He ran up the short flight of steps and flung it open. To his dismay, two human-like vamps stood in the way, one of them Luke.

"Oh, you gotta be kidding me," he muttered, backing down one of the stair steps that led to the door. If Luke was here, chances were, Noah was gone. _God, Noah…I'm so sorry._

The vamp next to Luke charged, hitting Dean at the chest and carrying him down the steps with the force of his attack until they both landed, hard, on the dirt floor below. The breath was driven from Dean's lungs; he couldn't move, couldn't think. He was so dazed it took him a moment to realize that the vamp had staked itself on the silver-tipped spike in Dean's grip when it slammed Dean into the ground. The creature was unable to do more than growl, paralyzed by the stake. Weakly shoving it off of him, Dean sat up, grabbing air in great gulps.

Images were slipping, his focus sliding, but Dean saw Alec standing nearby, staring at him like a wild thing, eyes not tracking with what was happening around him.

"C'mon," he breathed, unable to force his voice any louder. He staggered to his feet, making his way once more to the stairs. The fuse to the bomb was slowly burning and Luke still blocked the doorway, but Dean _had to try_.

"You're not still trying to win, are you?" Luke asked, his voice mild, as if he were genuinely curious. "Can't you see you're beaten?"

Dean swayed on his feet, pulling another stake from his holster. He only had one left after this. He'd lost his machete somewhere along the way, but he still gripped his Colt.

"Give up, hunter," Luke suggested gently. "You can't win."

"No," Dean rasped. He took a step forward, and Alec followed as Dean had instructed. "You…won't beat…me," Dean managed to get out.

"I already have," Luke replied smugly, his face shifting into the monster version of himself, the stench of rot unbelievably spike even with the amount of death in the cavern.

The sight triggered the human survivors still in the meat locker. Dean heard a wail from somewhere behind him and beside him, Alec became unglued. Before Dean could stop him, the weakened survivor charged past him, up the stairs, reaching for Luke with fingers bent into horrible claws, ropes trailing from his wrists, and a sound somewhere between a sob and curse rolling up from his gut.

"No!" Dean cried, running up the stairs after him, reaching for him, but it was a wasted motion.

Luke caught Alec by the throat and broke the man's neck like he was snapping a twig. He flung Alec's lifeless body aside, staring at it with contempt. Dean felt breath leave him. The movie reel was slipping. He'd tried so hard to save one…just _one_. And Luke had killed him as if swatting a fly. Dean was losing ground, his will working to gain a toe-hold, working to stay in the game.

"Fool," Luke spat.

At that, Dean felt his expression harden, his lip curl, his eyes empty. His whole being screamed _enough_. He lifted his Colt, firing from the hip, his bullet tearing into Luke's gut, forcing the surprised vampire to stumble back. The moment Luke stepped from the doorway,Dean gaped in shock as he saw someone standing at the base of the first set of stairs.

_Noah_.

Covered in blood, left arm shredded and useless, forehead slashed open and blood running into his eyes, Noah stood like a specter, a silver tipped stake gripped tightly in his right hand.

"'Bout time…you sh-showed up," Dean gasped, unable to keep himself from swaying. Relief flooded through him, making him dizzy and weak. He could feel the blood from the cuts on his arms and legs soaking into his clothes and his hands were beginning to tingle.

"D'you set it?" Noah's voice was a low growl, sounding less human than Luke's had.

"Yeah," Dean rasped.

"Good. Get the hell out."

"Not without you."

Luke, gasping, hand pressed to his belly, pushed to his feet. "So touching."

"Shut up," Dean and Noah snapped in unison, not taking their eyes off each other.

The challenge was clear in the air. Time was rapidly running out. It was live or die time.

"Where are the rest?" Dean asked.

Noah glanced over their heads, but didn't elaborate. He looked to be saving his breath. Dean heard a macabre chorus of hissing below him and saw Luke come to attention, looking down the stairwell behind Dean in horror. Whatever message contained in that hiss had struck fear in Luke and was reverberating throughout the room above.

Face transforming fully into the creature that he now was, Luke lunged at Dean with claws out, a furious roar replacing his hive-minded hiss. Dean instinctively flinched back, but he needn't have worried. Before Luke could reach Dean's throat, the vampire froze, his face registering shock and pain even through the deformed features. Legs now useless, he fell back, caught by his brother's arm, as the silver-tipped stake drove deeper into him through his back.

Dean watched, barely breathing, as Noah slid down to sit on a step, holding Luke against him as Luke's face twitched and shifted, becoming human-like once more. The vampire couldn't move, paralyzed by the stake, the pain of the silver from the stake and Dean's bullet ratcheting through him.

"N-Noah?" Luke's voice sounded young, confused, garbled with the poison in his body.

Dean listed to one side, unable to hold himself straight, watching Noah as he held the thing that had been his brother and in the few, spare moments saw the memories of two lifetimes traverse his friend's face. Tears burned Dean's eyes at Noah's broken, tragic smile as he looked at his brother. He saw Noah remember who Luke had been, what Luke had done, and what Luke was now.

"D-Do it, b-brother," Luke gasped.

The last word seemed to unravel Noah. He bent forward, pressing his bloody forward against Luke's, and squeezed his eyes closed. "Fuck," he whispered. "I can't…."

Dean's heart fell. He stomach followed. They had to get out of there. _Now_.

"Wanted you…to be with…me," Luke confessed, struggling to move his lips against the paralyzing effects of the stake, the poison in his system ravaging his face with pain, exposing the illusion of youth.

"I hated you," Noah voice was regret and sorrow wrapped in a fury so bright it practically lit the air around them. He lifted his head, his blood smearing Luke's pale face. "I hated what you turned me into. You took everything from me. You took my _life_."

He freed his only good arm, reaching into his breast pocket and drew out a knife. Dean felt his heart slamming at the base of his throat. Time was bending around him. How long ago had he lit the fuse? A minute? Five minutes? If they didn't leave now, they weren't going to leave at all.

But he couldn't move.

Noah was shaking – from pain or emotion, it wasn't clear, but it caused the blade in his hand to tremble. He lifted it, looking at his brother's eyes.

"Please." Luke's voice was suddenly clear, his face seeming to age.

Without another word, Noah brought the blade down. Dean closed his eyes, unable to watch, flooded with memories of his own – Sam in the panic room, Sam walking away from him as he lay bleeding on the floor, Sam at the edge of the seal as Lucifer rose. If things had gone differently, Dean realized, opening his eyes to the gore that now covered his friend, the stairs, the floor around his feet, this could have been him.

That thought pushed Dean forward, up the stairs. Wordlessly, he grabbed the back of Noah's collar, tugging the man upright, Luke's body rolling from Noah's lap to land with a wet _thunk_ on the floor below. Noah was pliant, quiet, the fight and fire gone from his body. Dean tugged harder, forcing Noah to climb the stairs faster as the hissing below turned to shrieks and Dean could only surmise the _nosferatu_ had found the bomb.

The two hunters stumbled through the door at the top of the stairs, Noah leaning heavily on Dean, his ravaged arm dripping a blood trail as they moved. Dean wrapped his gun arm around the man's waist, supporting him around the edge of the hole the vamps had dragged Dean through and out into the main room. The carnage that greeted his eyes was unfathomable. The vamps that weren't staked or beheaded were cowering at the edges of the room, hissing and clawing at the walls, wanting desperately to escape.

The smoke from the fire outside had found its way in and Dean could see through the doorway that some vamps and tried to escape and had been caught by the flames. Noah stumbled, going to his knees, pulling Dean with him.

"_Move_," Dean urged.

In his mind's eye, Dean could almost see the fuse reaching the initial stick of dynamite. His whole being was focused on one thing: _survive_. He pulled Noah upright, his hand slipping in the hunter's blood, and dragged him forward. Ignoring the bodies of the vampires around them, he forced his body forward, making his way toward the opened door.

And then a hand grabbed his ankle. Dean went down, hard, nothing to break his fall. Rolling, dazed, to his back, Dean looked down the length of his body to see a vamp, face nearly cut in half, using his legs like a rope to pull itself forward, its teeth bared.

"NO!" Noah roared, the cry rolling up from his gut.

He grabbed the stake from Dean's limp hand and shoved it into the creature's eye, causing even Dean to flinch back and away. Two vamps peeled themselves from the wall and launched themselves at the hunters. Dean lifted the Colt – it seemed to weigh a hundred pounds – and fired, driving one back. Just as the other one reached Noah, they felt the floor beneath them roll as if cresting a wave.

The bomb. The cave had protected them somewhat, but their time was up.

The vamp jerked back, writhing as the ancient vamps in the cave below shattered and burned, destroyed by fire, force, and silver.

"Go!" Noah yelled, looking wildly over his shoulder at Dean. "Go, go, _go_!"

Dean struggled to his feet, trying to tug Noah upright. Noah staggered once, pushing Dean away as the vamp renewed its efforts to take a hunter out with it. Dean pulled his last stake and Noah grabbed it from him.

"Go!" He urged. "I'm right behind you!"

He turned and Dean saw him shove the stake through the vamp's chest. Dean ran, throwing himself out through the doorway as the building shifted and shook, the force of the explosion and fire destroying it from the inside out. He covered his face with his arms and ran through the fire break, past the charred vampire bodies, falling to the ground and rolling to extinguish the flames that caught his shirt and jeans on fire.

His clothes smoking but not burning, Dean came to rest on his stomach, panting and still, looking up just in time to see the mill collapse in on itself. He flinched and ducked as a mushroom cloud of flames and silver ballooned up from the center, the wood hungrily consumed. Gasping, eyes burning, Dean strained to see his friend emerge from the flames.

But Noah wasn't behind him.

_C'mon, man. C'mon...**please**..._

Dean continued to stare, every cell in his body _willing_ Noah to stumble from the wreckage, knowing that the silver in the bomb wouldn't kill him, knowing he could heal from his seemingly devastating wounds.

Nothing. No one.

Noah was gone.

When the building shifted in once more, sinking further into the cave system below, burning everything trapped inside, Dean dropped his head into his arms, the breath he'd held escaping in a groan of pain and grief.

Tears of exhaustion that had been kept at bay were given freedom to spill unchecked down his dirt- and blood-streaked face.

www

It was dark when Dean opened his gritty, swollen eyes.

He was numb, empty. Alone. He'd finished the job, but he hadn't been able to save even one of the victims. And he'd lost a friend.

He rolled to his back, the dying light of the still-burning mill enough to see that he was alone. No one from the town had come to investigate the sound of the explosion. He lay looking at the stars, finding the constellations, wondering about the people he worked so hard to keep safe.

He closed his eyes, uncaring that he lay exposed in the middle of the woods. The vamps were gone. Noah was gone. Sam was gone. There was no reason to hurry anymore. Sometimes, survival wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

The next time he opened his eyes, he was cold and dew covered his face, hands, the ground he lay upon. Turning his head stiffly to the right, he saw the first blush of dawn cresting the horizon, soft pink hues stroking the underside of the twilight and turning it blue. He lay still, watching the sun stretch and groan its way above the tree line. He didn't move until he felt himself begin to shiver.

Basic bodily needs gnawed at him.

Rolling to his side, he managed to get to his hands and knees before a wave of sickness washed over him. All the blood, the strain, the effort, the exhaustion slammed into him over and over, buffeting him and sending him spinning. He retched, but nothing coming up because he was so hollow.

After a moment the world settled down and he managed to make it to his feet. He walked in the general direction of the abandoned house, mildly surprised when he found it again. Stumbling around to the back, he primed the pump until water flowed. He shoved his head beneath the cold, mineral-heavy liquid and drank, letting it wash the blood, sweat, and tears from his face, letting it cool his battered neck and soothe his throat.

Shivering, soaked, he staggered back to the house, collapsing onto the pallet. Part of him knew he was in shock, fever from his wounds threatening to roll him under, but his only defense was to let sleep claim him once more.

He awoke once, his half-conscious mind playing with his vision. He was willing to swear that he saw Noah standing over him. Another time, it was Sam. When he opened his eyes a third time, morning had come once more and he'd lost track of days. His stomach cramped from hunger, his throat was parched, and his hands trembled from the abuse his body had managed to survive.

He knew he had a choice to make.

He'd decided to survive the nest. Now, he had to deal with it. Either he lay here and let his body expire or he got the hell up and got on with life.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Winchester?" he growled at himself, shocked at the sound of his destroyed voice.

Pushing upright, he stripped off his ruined clothes, stumbling naked to the well behind the house. There was no one around to see. Using the T-shirt he'd been wearing, he carefully washed the scabbed-over cuts on his chest and back as best he could, then cleaning the sweat, soot, and blood from the swallow cuts on his limbs, grateful they didn't look infected. They stung when the cold water hit them, and one or two could use some stitches, but they weren't going to kill him.

Returning to the house, he dressed in Noah's clothes, having none of his own left. It felt both strange and comforting. The way wearing Sam's slightly-too-big hoodie always felt. As if he was deciding to be someone else for awhile. Which was just fine with him because Dean Winchester wasn't someone he really wanted to be right now. Packing up whatever he could salvage from the cabin into his duffel, he went through the rest of the pockets in Noah's backpack.

When his fingers brushed Noah's wallet, his knees buckled and he had to sit down. He pulled out Maggie's picture, smiling sadly back at her image.

"He did it," he told her. "He finished it for you."

Exhaling slowly, he put the picture away, then shoved the wallet into his duffel, down deep where it wouldn't fall out. He grabbed the notebook, promising himself he'd look at it later. The motorcycle Noah had stolen was worthless without fuel, so he began to walk. It took a few hours to get back to the Impala; he had to stop several times to catch his breath and force the world to stop spinning.

When he saw her he took a quick breath. Her black body shimmering in the late day light, she seemed to be waiting for him. Saying, _I'm still here…I've always been here…I've never left you._ It felt like coming home.

With trembling hands, he unlocked the door, slide behind the wheel, then leaned back, letting her hold him. His phone was in the glove box – so near. He could call Sam. Just to hear his voice. He could call Bobby. Tell him the job was done.

But Dean just sat there, head back, body aching. There were things that needed to be done. Basic Hunting Survival 101 dictated what should happen next. But Dean was tapped out. He wanted to cry. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to scream, hit something, drive recklessly fast, let music drown out the memories of the last few days.

Slowly, he decided to do the least damaging thing. Turning the engine over, he ejected the Led Zeppelin tape Sam had given him and let the music from the radio fill the nearly empty interior of the car, a male voice lamenting along with the sound of a soft guitar plucked by expert fingers.

"_I've seen inside the devil's dreams where young men die, and graveyards open up their arms for_ _mothers left to cry. I have seen the bleeding and I hate what we've done, but just like every other fool I'll keep marching on…."_

Dean swallowed, listening, then shifted into drive and headed back to the hotel. He drove on instinct, autopilot. He wasn't quite sure how he remembered where the hotel was, but he managed to locate it before passing out behind the wheel. Parking outside his room, he spared a glance down the way to where he knew Noah had checked in, wondering what the hunter had left there, if anything. Aside from the man's dog tags, which had burned with him, Dean knew he had Noah's most prized possession in the duffel bag. He grabbed the bag, unwilling for the moment to let it too far out of his sight, then made his way into the hotel room.

Stepping into the room – the modern conveniences, and the fact that his stuff was still there and the room hadn't been rented out from under him – unnerved him a bit. He dropped the duffel next to his clothes, then made his way to the bathroom, the shower calling to him like a siren. He stripped down and paused to regard himself in the mirror for a moment.

He'd lost weight; he could see his cheek bones protruded above a reddish-brown beard. Blood – his, Noah's, or the vamp blood from their camouflage – clung to the edges of hair that framed his face. His collar bones were more prominent, and the slices along his ribcage – basically separating the skin between his ribs – were pink, the skin around them a yellowish faded bruise. The cuts and punctures on his arms and legs were the greedy _nosferatu_ had clutched at him weren't any worse than what he'd done to himself when they'd needed blood for a ritual.

But looking at them had him remembering the terrifying sensation of being propelled along a sea of death, carried to another grave. He swayed, gripping the edge of the sink to gain his balance.

_Don't think about it and it can't hurt you. Don't remember. Don't remember.  
_

He turned on the hot water in the sink, lathered his face with shaving cream, and rid his skin of the rough beard. Once his jaw line was smooth, he stepped beneath the hot water in the shower, standing still and letting the water run over his bruised, battered body for nearly an hour before exiting, wrapped in a towel, to dress in clean sweats and an AC/DC T-shirt.

He ordered a pizza, then lay on the bed, staring at his cell phone. He should call Bobby. He knew he owed his old friend that much. But he didn't know what to say other than the job was done.

How could he tell Bobby or Sam what he'd done – what he'd _not_ done? How he'd not only let the other survivors die, but had lost a friend in the process? How the hell could he explain Noah? How could he make them understand who Noah was? _What _he was? How he'd saved Dean? How Dean had thought of him as _friend_ before the end?

How could he tell them that Noah had killed his own brother because of what he'd become?

Staring up at the ceiling, eyes tracking to the holes scattered across the tile, Dean thought of Sam. Thought of him walking away from everything familiar, everything grounding, everything _real. _He thought of Luke's choked confession, _wanted you to be with me_. He thought of brothers and family and the natural and the supernatural and the twisted truth they all lived every day.

Dropping a hand across his eyes, Dean blanked his mind, burying everything he felt about the other hunter, every memory he had of the complicated tangle of werewolf and man, and slept until the pizza arrived. After eating his fill, he lay back on the bed, the silence of the room battling with the chaos in his mind.

Exhaustion was the deciding factor and Dean slept more, seemingly unable to get enough rest, letting the clock cycle through twenty-four hours. When he woke he lay still for several minutes, the decision to function, to keep moving forward, harder than it should have been. Lacking a better idea, he showered again, cleaning his cuts, his healing throat, letting the hot water ease the ache in his sore muscles. Each time he cleaned a cut on his body, he remembered how Noah had fought to save him from the fever. How he could have killed Dean multiple times and instead forced him free of the vampire's nest.

_Don't think about it and it won't overwhelm you. Don't think about it and it can't hurt you. Don't think about it, period. Don't remember. Don't remember. Don't remember._

When the hum of the HVAC unit startled him, Dean realized that it had literally been days since he'd spoken with anyone aside from ordering a meal and smiling at the front desk clerk. He decided to venture out to eat at a diner and grab a paper to orient himself to _when_ it was once more. He was shocked to realize it had been over two weeks since he'd see or spoken to his brother.

He needed to reconnect with Bobby soon. Or call Cas. _Someone_.

He couldn't become Noah. Hunting alone. Always alone. No relationships, no connections. Keeping a safe distance, keeping everyone safe from him.

_Don't remember. Don't remember._

There was a difference between being a loner, and being alone. And he'd been alone for too long to feel balance, normal. Dean knew he'd go crazy without some sort of personal contact. But he didn't want to call Sam. Not now. Not when the reality of what he witnessed was so close, so possible. Sam needed to stay away. Stay safe.

Dean was a better hunter if Sam wasn't around. He'd _almost_ convinced himself of that fact.

He slept for a few hours, his body too tired for nightmares, his exhausted, wounded mind given a chance to recharge. The following afternoon, after refilling his supplies, Dean to stock of what he had left in the clothing department and decided he was going to have to clean the blood- and dirt-stained garments he had left; he wasn't much of a shopper. None of them really had been. They just repaired and made do.

Gathering up his green canvass jacket, he carried it over to the sink in at the kitchenette, and grabbed a washcloth to clean off s smear of grease. He'd just started rubbing out the stain when something caught his eye in the mirror above his head. Glancing up, he jerked in surprise to see Castiel standing over his shoulder, face as tranquil as always.

"God!" Dean dropped his head, thumping his hand on the edge of the sink before turning off the water. "Don't _do_ that."

Oblivious to the effect his sudden, soundless appearance had on Dean, Castiel greeted him with a quiet, polite, "Hello, Dean."

Dean took a breath, turning to face the angel and found Cas mere inches from him, his height making it so that they were practically nose-to-nose.

"Cas," Dean said patiently. "We've talked about this. Personal space?"

He swore sometimes it was like speaking to a child.

Castiel stepped back. "My apologies."

The sight of the angel had Dean spinning, the alternate reality to the one he'd been living for the last week and a half sending his internal compass sideways. In a rush, everything he _hadn't_ been paying attention to crashed into him: Lucifer walking the earth, Michael's sword, Zachariah's threats, four horsemen of the apocalypse, destiny, denial, Armageddon. He fought for a breath, noticing how Castiel's eyes swept him, taking in the still-healing bruises, wounded neck, trembling hands.

Grabbing his still-dirty jacket, Dean made his way to the duffel on the spare bed. "How'd you find me?" He asked, rubbing his ribs. "I thought I was flying below the angel radar."

Castiel nodded. "You are. Bobby told me where you were."

Dean frowned, making a mental note to ask Bobby for a heads up next time. It wasn't that he sorry to see Cas. In fact, after several days alone, resting, healing…he was restless. And lonely.

Not that he'd ever admit that to anyone.

He needed a job. A hunt. And a friend.

He glanced at Cas, watching as the angel's guileless blue eyes and serene features – so different from the fire and desperation etched into the face of the last person Dean had been around – took in the hotel room.

"Where's Sam?" Cas asked.

_So, Bobby will tell him where I am, but he won't tell him about Sam to spare me the job, huh?_ Without thinking, Dean slid his arms into the sleeves of the jacket he'd planned on cleaning.

"Me and Sam are…taking separate vacations for awhile. So…."

He looked at Cas. The angel looked back.

He'd almost forgotten the way Cas had of forcing Dean to drive the conversation. It was a different rhythm than Noah. So much different from Sam. With his brother, Dean knew how to move, what to say, how to _breathe_ and Sam rolled with it.

He missed that.

_Don't think about it and it can't hurt you._

"You find God yet?" Dean asked the angel. "More importantly, can I have my damn necklace back, please?"

Seeing Noah's dog tags had him feeling the absence of the amulet more than usual.

Castiel stared at him. "No, I haven't found him. That's why I'm here. I need your help."

Dean needed a hunt. He needed action. He needed to focus on something other than what _wasn't_ there. He needed to redeem himself, save someone, stop something. Cas was his friend, and his friend needed help, and he needed that help from _Dean_. Listening to Cas, Dean realized that anything that got him away from Greeley, PA, would be welcome.

Then he heard that Cas didn't need him because he was a hunter, or a friend, but because he was a vessel.

Going after an archangel, one Castiel was convinced would know where God was – which in any reality other than the one Dean was forced to reside would sound eight shades of crazy – was not going to be easy, and Castiel needed a shield. One that the other archangels wouldn't harm out of fear of Michael's wrath.

It was on the tip of Dean's tongue to resist. Castiel had the power to force him, but after the day in the room with Alistair – with the demon almost _killing_ Dean because of the assumptions of angels – Dean didn't think Castiel would resort to that. He didn't want to put his friend in that position, and truth be told, he needed someone else calling the shots for the moment.

_Don't think about it and it can't hurt you. Don't think about it and it won't be real. _

Once Dean agreed to go – driving, this time – Cas didn't say a word about the wound on his throat, the bruises on his face. He simply touched Dean's shoulder – right where the faded scar from where he'd pulled Dean from Hell still resided – and Dean's wounds were gone. Healed.

As if they'd never been there. As if he'd not hung in a meat locker full of other human victims he'd been forced to leave behind. As if vampires had never fed off of him.

Looking for Raphael with Cas felt like a different time, a different reality, a different _Dean_. But, despite what he kept trying to convince himself of, he knew from personal experience that there was no real escape from his past. Angel vessel or not, he was the same guy who'd been saved by a werewolf. The same guy who'd fought an overwhelming number of vampires.

Alone in the car, after they'd interrogated Raphael to no avail, Dean simply drove into the night. Thinking about the aura of sorrow and disbelief that had clung to Castiel after they'd left Raphael trapped in a ring of holy fire, Dean glanced to the right – to Sam's side, the passenger side – and took in the empty seat the angel had vacated, his own words still hanging in the quiet of the car in heavy, black font.

_It's funny, you know, I've been so chained to my family, but now that I'm alone, hell, I'm happy._

With a soul-shifting reality check, Dean realized those words were actually starting to be true.

Something had changed since Sam walked away from him at that rest stop. He still missed his brother, missed the familiarity, the knowledge that no matter what else life threw at him, he still had a job to do. He missed the companionship of simply having his brother by his side. But…he didn't quite _need _it like he used to.

He'd been able to talk to Noah about more than he'd ever been able to share with Sam. He'd been able to talk to Noah _about_ Sam. He was relaxed with Cas. He'd…he'd actually _laughed_ with Cas. Sure it was at the angel's expense, but that was beside the point.

He hunted, he fought, he bled and killed. But he'd been able to be…real. Honest. _Dean_. He hadn't had to be responsible for either of them. Watch their every move. Second-guess their every word.

He'd been _himself_ for the first time since he'd returned from Hell.

Dean rubbed his forehead, unsure of where he was heading, just knowing that he needed to go somewhere. Part of him wanted to go back to Bobby's, just to check in with his old friend. Part of him wanted to fall off the grid and make it impossible for even Cas to find him.

If God had left the building, Sam had quit hunting, Noah was dead, and Cas was going rogue trying to prove his brother wrong, maybe it was as good a time as any for Dean Winchester to disappear.

"Yeah, but that's not gonna happen, is it, baby?" he said softly to the interior of the Impala, the night like a familiar weight on him.

He decided to head to Bobby's. He wasn't sure where else to go. When his phone buzzed, he jumped, caught off guard. Swearing, he scrambled to grab it before it stopped ringing, surprised to see Bobby's number. He flipped open the phone.

"Y'know how weird it is when you call me right when I decide to head your way?"

"_Call the psychic hotline,"_ came Bobby's snarky reply.

"So, Cas found me," Dean informed him, trying to remember the last time he'd spoken to his friend. If he recalled, it was back when Bobby identified the _nosferatu._

"_I figured."_

There was something on the underside of Bobby's voice. Something the other hunter wasn't saying, but knew he needed to. Dean switched the phone to his other hand so that he could rest his elbow on the window and balance the steering wheel, shifting the majority of his attention from the road to the call.

"What is it, Bobby?"

"_I, uh…I got a visitor here. Thought you might be interested to know."_

Dean couldn't help it. At the thought that it might be Sam, his heart flinched. He didn't even know if it was because he wanted to talk to his brother…or was afraid to. It had just been so long and so much happened. What would he say? Did he want to come back to hunting? Did Dean want to let him?

"Uh, who...who is it?" Dean asked, trying to settle his voice.

"_It ain't Sam, kid,"_ Bobby said, sounding instantly contrite, as if it hadn't occurred to him that Dean would have immediately gone there. _"I'm sorry."_

Dean tried to make his voice sound nonchalant. "Eh, didn't think it would be him anyway."

He opened his mouth to ask who the hell else he'd be interested in when Bobby spoke up.

"_Gotta say, I was pretty…pretty shocked to see him. Didn't recognize him at first; he looked half dead. Hell, _was_ half dead."_

Dean felt his heart slow, his stomach dropping. He glanced into the rearview mirror and, not seeing any cars behind him, slowed and pulled over to the shoulder of the road. A cold sweat broke out across his body.

"Bobby…?"

"_There something you want to tell me about your last hunt, Dean?" _

Dean swallowed. It couldn't be. The explosion…the fire…. "I—"

"_You have some help getting rid of those nosferatu?"_

Dean had to lean forward, pressing his forehead against the steering wheel. "He's alive?" His voice was a breathless croak, forcing its way past the lump in this throat.

"_Alive, yes,"_ Bobby confirmed. _"Figured out pretty quick he wasn't a demon, but he sure ain't a fan of silver."_ The suspicion was thick in Bobby's voice. Dean could practically see the hunter sitting with his rifle across his lap.

"Don't hurt him, Bobby," Dean pleaded without thinking.

"_You think I have a habit of letting people sleep on my couch and then offing them?"_

_People, no…. Werewolves…?_

"How the hell'd he get there?"

"_Says he took a train,"_ Bobby replied.

"That sounds about right." Dean rubbed his forehead, breathing a word of thanks that Bobby hadn't shot first, asked questions later.

_Why had Noah gone to Bobby's_? Dean wondered.

And then he knew. Bobby Singer was the only name from his past that Noah could remember, and once Dean had left the hotel with Cas, there would have been no way for Noah to find him.

"Can…can I talk to him?"

"_He's asleep. Guy sleeps like the dead."_

"He say why he's there?"

"_Said you have something of his. Guess he figured you'd be by eventually."_

Dean nodded against the phone. "I…I thought he was dead."

"_You and me both, kid." _

Words started to stack up inside of him, shoving against his throat, choking him in their hurry to escape, to reveal. "Bobby, listen, I didn't want to—"

"_Hey. I wasn't there. I don't know what went down on that hunt. But now some dude I fought in a war with thirty years ago is sleeping on my couch, drinking my beer, and he hasn't aged a day. So, get your ass over here and help me figure it why that is."_

"I'll be there as soon as I can," Dean promised. "Might take me a couple days. Bobby, just…." He tried to remember what day it was, when the full moon would rise. "Just keep an eye on him."

"_I won't let him outta my sight."_

Dean hung up the phone, stuffing it into his pocket with a trembling hand as he rolled through the memories of the fight and explosion. Noah was _alive_. That was a game-changer.

He pulled back onto the road, his brain spinning as fast as his tires as the Impala chewed through the dotted yellow lines.

* * *

**a/n:** Thank you for reading! I hope you'll return for the final chapter and a reunion of our favorite brothers.

Just a note about Noah's scariest fight. My husband's granddad was a medic in the Battle of the Bulge, which took place December 1944 through January 1945 in Belgium, France, and Luxembourg; we were privileged one New Year's Eve to sit down and listen to him tell the story of the troops and survival during that time. Soldiers – in any era – have my humble gratitude and admiration.

**Playlist:**

Soldier's Eyes by Jack Savoretti


	10. Chapter 10

**Title: **Night of the Hunter  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Author**: gaelicspirit  
**Characters:** Dean, OC, with appearances by Sam, Bobby, and Castiel  
**Disclaimer/Warning:** They're not mine. More's the pity. Title of the story comes from a 30 Seconds To Mars song of the same name. This story is definitely PG-13 and might be considered borderline R in some parts for language, violence, and one mature scene in the first chapter.

**Author's Note: **Thank you all for coming back! I promised that Sam would return, and for those of you who have been waiting, he's here at the end of all things. Okay, well, not _all_ things. I suppose I always feel a bit (overly) nostalgic when wrapping a story – especially when the creation of it has felt slightly epic to me.

I should note: this is a chapter to bring everything together. It's not meant for action; a bit of angst is the order of the day. And a sense of completion. But after the events that transpired in the previous chapter, I hope you won't mind.

I want to thank my dear friend **ThruTerrysEyes** for giving each chapter a sanity read, exclaiming at the scenes where I needed her to exclaim and pointing out the flaws that inevitably occur due to writing at light speed. You are truly good for me, _mo chara_.

To **Janet**, for whom this was written, and everyone else who has given me their time reading this story, I hope you've enjoyed the journey.

* * *

_A revolution has begun today for me inside  
The ultimate defense is to pretend  
Revolve around yourself just like an ordinary man  
__**The only other option is to forget**_

30 Seconds to Mars, _R-Evolve_

www

**CHAPTER TEN**

**Kansas City, MO**

Tired wasn't a big enough word.

From the moment he'd hung up with Bobby, sitting along the side of that darkened road, Dean had wanted nothing more than to get to Sioux Falls. However, it seemed having a celestial destiny was going to take precedence over anything Dean wanted. After Cas left him outside of Waterville, Dean set his sight on a cross-country trek. Maine to South Dakota was a trek.

_Might be time to re-think the value of angel transportation_, Dean thought as he passed the Jehovah's Witness outside the run-down motel tucked back into the Bottoms of Kansas City.

Dean spared a thought for Castiel as he dropped his duffel on the floor. The angel had been focused on finding God, on proving Raphael wrong. Cas _needed_ the archangel to be wrong. Dean could understand that, could sympathize, even, since it would really help his situation if the big guy were hanging around somewhere.

The thing Castiel seemed to sometimes forget was that Dean was Michael's very _human_ vessel. Despite the drawback of the news Raphael shared – and despite Dean informing the angel that he needed to get to Bobby's – Castiel had been relentless in his quest to keep moving, keep searching.

But Dean simply had to stop. Just for a night.

He was too close to Lawrence for his liking, but he knew if he didn't stop now he was in danger of making a mistake; now was not the time to take risks. Being healed from the wounds left behind after his latest battle with the _nosferatu_ had not, apparently, included an angel-sized Red Bull shot of energy.

Castiel was anxious. It radiated through the phone lines as he urged Dean to help him find the Colt. The fucking _Colt_ of all things. His father had practically killed himself to get it and now Castiel thought it would be powerful enough to defeat the devil.

Body aching, demanding at least four hours of sleep, Dean wearily wrapped his arms around the damp-smelling pillow. It hadn't taken long for Hell to creep back in to taint any sleep he'd been able to catch in the small pockets of time Castiel had allowed him to rest. If he could just get four hours nightmare-free, he might actually be able to function with a clear enough head to make it to Bobby's tomorrow.

Armageddon could wait until he found out how the hell Noah had survived that inferno.

He'd almost relaxed enough to drop over the edge of when his phone vibrated. Growling, unwilling to open his eyes, he reached blindly for the phone and practically bit off his words into the receiver.

"Dammit, Cas, I need to _sleep_!"

"_Dean. It's me."_

His heart froze. His breath caught.

Three weeks. Three weeks of too much blood, too much doubt.

Three weeks and a choice made. Three weeks and needs changed.

"Sam?" He sat up, squinting blearily at the digital read-out of the alarm clock. "It's a quarter past four."

"_This is important."_ Sam's voice held that note of entitlement he always got when he'd discovered something he knew Dean _didn't _know. When things were going well, it ticked Dean off. When things were off – as they were now – it put him on instant alert.

"Gimme a sec," he grumbled, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and pushing to his feet.

Setting the phone down on the bed, he shoved a hand through his hair. He almost didn't want to pick the phone back up. It had taken this long for him to accept that he was better off without Sam. It had taken this long for him to not _want_ Sam there. He knew how easy it would be to go back on that. He knew how easy it would be to just stop being alone.

Tugging on his jeans – something told him he'd feel more balanced if he were clothed for this conversation – he took a breath and picked up the phone. Ears alerted, he could now pick up the hum of the highway behind Sam's breathing.

"You driving?"

"_Yeah,"_ Sam replied, sounding slightly startled to hear Dean's voice so abruptly. He'd clearly been caught up in some pretty heavy thoughts.

"You okay?"

Sam paused. Dean lived four lifetimes in that pause. _"Yeah, I'm okay."_

"Where'r you headed?"

"_I, uh…,"_ Sam faltered, and Dean could practically see him flex his mouth back in a helpless, humorless smile. _"I don't really know. Just…away."_

"From?"

"_Where I was."_

Pressing his lips closed, Dean dragged his free hand down his face. He had to be careful here. He wasn't Sam's big brother right now. Sam had walked away from his brother. Had chosen a life separate from hunting.

Dean couldn't handle this conversation the way every instinct inside of him was screaming at him to behave.

"Okay, Chief, what's so important you had to interrupt my beauty sleep?"

"_Where are you?"_

Dean hesitated. He wasn't sure why. Instinct? Wariness?

"What's going on, Sam?"

Whatever he'd been expecting Sam to say, the words _Lucifer told me I was his vessel_ were not on the list of possibilities. He stood for a beat, listening as Sam described the dream of Jessica, knowing how seeing her would have simultaneously ripped out his brother's heart and enticed him to sleep forever.

He wandered to the room fridge he kept stocked with beer – always the first supply on his list to acquire when arriving in a new town – and felt a fist close around his heart. It was a wall of defense, protection…something real that he could count on, lean on as he let his brother's voice wash over him.

"So," he said, reaching in for a beer. It was five o'clock somewhere in the world. "You're his vessel, huh? Lucifer's wearing you to the prom?"

"_That's what he said."_ Sam sounded wound up. Anxious.

And for good reason: Satan just said he wanted his body. That was not normal. And yet, Dean couldn't bring himself to react with anything other than, _of course_. The universe seemed destined to screw with them. Pitting them against odds decidedly never in their favor.

And he had a feeling it started with his deal. The deal he made to bring Sam back, to make sure he was kept in the world. _For this? To be the human condom for the Angel of Darkness?_

"Just when you thought you were out, they pull you back in, huh, Sammy?"

"_So, that's it?"_ Sam sounded pissed. _"That's your response?"_

Dean knew what his brother wanted to hear. He knew Sam was looking for a big brother rallying cry of _they'll never take us alive_! He knew Sam needed him, needed reassurance. But he couldn't give it to him. Too much had happened.

He simply didn't have it in him to placate Sam with assurances he didn't believe, faith he no longer had.

"What are you looking for?"

"_I don't know. A…little panic? Maybe?"_

Dean sank down into a chair, feeling his bones creak like the seventy-year-old man his soul truly was. He huffed slightly. "Guess I'm a little…numb to the earth-shattering revelations at this point."

"_What are we gonna do about it?"_ Sam demanded, his eagerness setting Dean slight off-balance.

He took a sip of beer. "What do you want to do about it?"

Sam's voice hardened around his next words. _"I want back in, for starters."_

"Sam—"

"_I mean it,"_ Sam snapped, cutting him off. _"I'm sick of being a puppet to these sons of bitches."_

Dean closed his eyes, listening, his heart rebelling. _Sure you are, now that it's touched _you_. Now that you're scared. Now that it's personal. _

He forced himself to bite his tongue against the onslaught of words that stepped on each other in their rush to tumble free. _You were pretty happy walking away before. Didn't matter that I was being dogged by a fuckin' archangel with Armageddon staring me in the face. _

He exhaled slowly.

"_I'm gonna hunt him down, Dean."_

Bitterness climbed over Dean's imprisoned words and colored the ones he let loose. "Oh, so we're back to revenge, then, are we?" He heard an echo of his own caution – not to Sam, but to Noah – reverberate back to him. _It's not just about revenge. It _can't_ be. _"Yeah, 'cause that worked out so well last time."

Sam bit down on his reply. _"Not revenge. Redemption."_

Dean suppressed the need to roll his eyes, clenching his jaw as he filtered Sam's demands. "So, what? You're just gonna walk back in and we're gonna be the dynamic duo again?"

Doubt saturated each word. Sam hadn't left because he was bored. He hadn't left because he didn't _want to_ hunt anymore. He left because he _couldn't_. Because he couldn't be around the demon blood and not thirst. Not hunger. He didn't have the control Noah had. He couldn't hack it. And it would get him killed.

Dean was sure of it. It would get Sam killed or it would get Dean killed.

Apparently zeroing in on the source of Dean's hesitancy, Sam pressed, _"Look, Dean. I can do this. I can. I'm gonna prove it to you."_

Dean rubbed his forehead. This was Sam. _His_ Sam. He couldn't _let him_ do this. He couldn't let him come back. Not now – not like this.

And the hell of it was, Dean didn't _want_ him back. He didn't want to lose himself inside of the role he played around Sam. He didn't want that constant, gnawing fear that he was going to lose Sam. Again.

And this time, no one would want his soul in exchange.

"Look, Sam. It doesn't matter. Whatever we do. I mean, it turns out that you and me? We're the, uh, the fire and oil of Armageddon."

He stood up, turning to face the window. He needed to move. This was too hard. What he was saying, what he was about to _do?_ It was too hard.

"On that basis alone we should just pick a hemisphere. Stay away from each other for good."

"_Dean, it doesn't have to be like this!"_ He could hear Sam's desperation, vocal fingernails clinging to a ledge of reason. _"We can fight it!"_

Turning away from the window to pace in a tight, four-step pattern, Dean nodded.

"Yeah, you're right. We can," he said, swallowing hard and forcing himself to say the rest. "But not together. We're not stronger when we're together, Sam. I think we're weaker. Because…whatever we have between us? Love, family, whatever it is…they are _always_ gonna use it against us." He felt the fist around his heart squeeze, the ache intensifying as he felt Sam listening, felt Sam's denial. "You know that. We're better off apart. We got a better chance of dodging Lucifer and Michael and this…this whole damn thing, if we just go our own ways."

"_Dean, don't do this." _

He'd expected anger in Sam's voice. The plea held there, the pain layering the words, caught him by surprise and he almost relented. Almost changed his mind and told Sam where to find him.

And then an image flashed across his mind's eye. An image of blood splattered across a battered face, spreading across a rough-hewn floor. An image of Noah pressing his forehead to Luke's. And image of a knife cutting cleanly, ending it all.

And the memory of how easily that could have been him and Sam rocked through him once more.

"Bye, Sam," he choked out, hanging up the phone before Sam's voice could draw him back.

_It's for the best,_ he reminded himself. _It's for the best._

www

**Somewhere outside of Kansas City, KS, the next day**

_Give yourself to Michael. Say yes and we can strike. _

Dean pulled the Impala to a stop beside a small grove of trees. The air was clean, cool, coppery-bright with the after burn of morning. The leaves had yellowed with the departure of summer and the world seemed to be holding its breath in anticipation. Dean glanced through the windshield; his present day surroundings held a sense of innocence, a sense of peace, when compared to the horrific, Croatoan-infected reality of the future he'd just witnessed.

_Before Lucifer gets to Sam. Before billions die._

He turned off the car and let the sound of the cooling engine crowd out the sound of Zachariah's voice in his head. He had to hand it to the angels – they had some pretty nifty tricks up their sleeves. Time travel wasn't one he'd expected, but it had certainly done the trick. Though, admittedly, not the trick Zachariah had been hoping for when he propelled Dean into 2014.

They'd _almost_ had him. Almost. He'd almost backed himself so far into a corner of stubborn independence that he practically handed Zachariah the victory he'd been vying so desperately for all this time. But the answer, Dean knew now with a certainty born of witnessing his own death, _must_ be no. He could not become Michael's vessel any more than Sam could become Lucifer's.

Once more, Castiel had rescued him. Just in time. Keeping a promise. Saving him from a darkness he couldn't begin to fathom.

Taking a slow breath, Dean climbed from the car, shutting the door decisively behind him. He couldn't remember a time when he wasn't at least a little bit exhausted. It seemed he wasn't meant to have a break; he simply had to keep going. Keep fighting. Keep surviving.

However, thanks to Zachariah's tactics, he now knew that doing it alone was _not_ the answer. He'd made a mistake. He'd let pain and doubt and circumstance cloud what he knew in his gut to be right. He and Sam, they had their issues, sure. Some that would take time to work through. But being separated like this, it had made them weaker, not stronger. The angels had sensed that weakness and exploited it. And he would not let the angels work this wedge any further.

He was going to fix this.

Dragging a hand across his mouth, Dean leaned against the hood of the Impala, waiting. He was nervous, he realized. It was a rare sensation. He hadn't felt like this since John had returned to hunt with them for that short time before his death. He'd made the right choice; he was sure of it. But time had passed and much had happened; he was flat-out nervous about seeing his brother again.

He'd sent Sam coordinates and two words: _meet me_. He knew his brother would find him. John had made sure they could always follow coordinates. He knew Sam would be confused, uncertain, but he had no idea how to explain what had just happened to him. Especially over the phone. He needed to see Sam again to know how to tell him about…_everything_.

A shiver of memory caused beads of sweat to gather along his hairline. He'd been skinned alive, ripped apart. He'd been food for _nosferatu_. He'd survived the death of his whole family.

And nothing, none of it, matched the mind-numbing horror he'd felt seeing Lucifer stare out at him from his brother's eyes.

He tried to decide what he should tell Sam; it was hard enough to process the idea that two guys from Kansas were the chosen ones for the universe's ultimate cage match. Telling Sam he'd seen him – seen _Lucifer_ – kill without mercy, without thought….

Dean swallowed hard as the sound of an approaching engine cut the quiet. He glanced to the right; Sam had nabbed a beater this time around. He didn't move as Sam rolled to a stop, waiting as his brother unfolded himself from the car and began to approach, his whole being radiating anxiety.

Rotating on his hip, he met Sam halfway.

"Sam."

Sam jerked his chin up, his eyes betraying his uncertainty. Dean pulled out the demon-hunting knife Sam had carried since Dean returned from Hell. He watched as Sam's eyes shifted to the sharp blade nervously.

_I'm not gonna use it on you, ya freak,_ Dean thought as he handed it over to his brother, handle first.

"If you're serious," he said, keeping his head lowered, his movements slow, voice modulated, instinctively trying to alleviate Sam's nervousness, "and you want back in…you should hang onto this. I'm sure you're, uh," he glanced up at Sam, "rusty."

Sam took the knife, but wouldn't meet Dean's eyes. The echo of their last conversation hung heavy in the air between them. Dean watched his brother. It had only been a month since he'd seen him, but it felt like longer. The Sam he'd seen in 2014 had been his brother's shell only. The person standing before him, the _essence_ that made Sam so vivid and real and vital had been missing.

And standing in that garden, surrounded by the sickeningly sweet smell of roses, Dean had been swamped by memories of his brother, of being stronger because he had Sam there to fight for, to fight beside him. He'd known that there was good in the world because Sam was alive. Alive, alive, _alive_.

"Look, man, I'm sorry," he said, his voice brisk with emotion. Sam blinked, finally looking back at him. "I don't know. I'm…whatever I need to be," he finished helplessly. It was so hard to say _I need you_. Especially when it wasn't really _need_ as much as it was _right_. "I was, uh…wrong."

"What made you change your mind?"

_Dude, I've got so many answers to that question, I don't know where to start_.

"Long story," Dean evaded. "The point is…maybe we are each other's Achilles heel. Maybe they'll find a way to use us against each other, I don't know." He shifted his weight, glancing to the side and seeing an abandoned house, a blood-smeared floor, a hunter slouched against the wall, tears on his face, as he uttered the broken confession of a brother's downfall. "I just know we're all we've got. More than that," he looked back at Sam, narrowing his eyes slightly against a ray of sunlight slipping the cover of clouds. "We keep each other human."

With those words, Sam relaxed. It was instantaneous and pervasive, sending relief through Dean as he regarded his brother carefully.

"Thank you," Sam said, a small smile ghosting his lips. "Really, thank you. I won't let you down."

The sincerity in Sam's words spiked an ache in Dean's heart. Before he'd returned from Hell, he would have said it wasn't possible for Sam to disappoint him. But things had changed.

"Oh, I know it," he said, drumming up a pale shade of cockiness in his tone. "I mean, you _are_ the second-best hunter on the planet."

Sam's grin stretched a bit with his nod. They were quiet a moment, getting used to breathing the same air again.

"So, what do we do now?"

Dean lifted a shoulder. "We make our own future."

"Guess we don't have a choice," Sam replied, returning the shrug.

Dean glanced over Sam's shoulder at the car his brother had arrived in. "What do you want to do with that thing?"

Sam followed his gaze. "Leave it?"

Dean shrugged, his lips folding down in a quick frown. "Works for me. Got anything in there?"

"Just my bag. One sec."

Dean turned and headed toward the trunk of the Impala, waiting until Sam jogged up with his duffel.

"Dude," Sam frowned, pushing a few things aside to make room for his bag. "Is this…dynamite?"

"Uh, yeah." Dean waited until Sam pulled clear before slamming the lid closed.

"What the hell did you need dynamite for?"

Dean moved around to the driver's side, pausing a moment before opening the door. "Vampires."

Sam blinked at him, eyebrows up. "Come again?"

"Just get in the car, Sam," Dean grumbled, absentmindedly rubbing his neck where the ropes had dug in. Thanks to Castiel's magic touch, the wounds had healed without scars, but the memory of the pain wasn't going away anytime soon.

Sam did as he was told, closing the door in unison with Dean and adjusting his legs so that he fit comfortably in the seat that had always been his. Dean looked over at him for a moment, finding that it was just as strange seeing Sam sitting there again as it had been seeing the seat empty.

"What?" Sam asked, self-conscious.

"Nothin'," Dean mumbled.

"You look tired," Sam commented.

Dean huffed, twisting the ignition and listening to the Impala rumble to life. "Yeah? Well, you would, too, if you had to take on half the population of County Evil by yourself."

Sam let his comment slide, resting his arm on the door frame as Dean pulled out of the grove of trees. "Nightmares?"

"Let it go, Sam."

"Just asking is all."

"Well, don't ask."

"It's been a few weeks, Dean—"

"Exactly!" Dean snapped, pulling out onto the highway and heading toward the interstate. "It's been _weeks_. And since you're the one who walked away, I get to ask the questions."

Sam pulled in a slow breath, tucking his chin against his chest as if trying to taper his anger. "Okay. Fine. Ask."

Dean hadn't expected Sam to agree so quickly. He didn't know which question to ask first. Where had he been all this time? Had he been alone? Had he missed this life before Lucifer dropped by? Had he missed _Dean_?

"Did you get a job?"

Sam nodded, rubbing his thumb along the interior of the window frame. "Yeah. A bar."

Dean smiled slightly. "I pictured you waiting tables."

"Kinda," Sam grinned slightly. "Met a few people."

"Female people?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "One track mind, I swear."

"What? Hey, it's possible, even for you."

"Did _you_ meet any female people?" Sam jutted his chin forward, then held up a hand to pause Dean's answer. "Who weren't working poles, that is."

"Classy," Dean glanced askance at his brother. Their familiar exchange was starting to ease the ache in the center of his chest. Like muscles long dormant starting to warm up again. "I met one," he confessed, face clouding as he thought of Ali. "Didn't work out so great, though."

"She shot ya down, huh?" Sam quipped, leaning back against the door in that way he had that always made Dean want to make sure the thing was locked.

"Not exactly," Dean replied. Then, just to wipe the smirk off of Sam's face, continued, "She got turned into a vampire and I had to cut off her head."

"Jesus, Dean," Sam exclaimed softly.

"Been a busy month," Dean offered.

"Where…how did—"

"So, Cas thinks the Colt can kill the devil," Dean interrupted.

"Wait, what?" Sam did a double take at Dean's abrupt left-turn in topics.

His fingers moved down the window's edge to worry at the fold of leather near the door handle – the same spot, Dean registered, that Sam always rubbed when he was distracted, unfocused, at a loss.

"He had me running over hell's half acre looking for Raphael – not the turtle, the angel," Dean tilted his hand in Sam's direction.

"Yeah, I worked that part out on my own, thanks."

"Cas said Raphael would know how to find God. Literally."

"Wait, so you guys went up against an arch angel?"

"Yep."

"And he told you the _Colt_ – as in Dad's Colt – could kill Lucifer?"

"No, that part came after."

"I think you're gonna have to start at the beginning," Sam muttered, shaking his head and looking out through the front window.

Dean merged with traffic and then reached over to turn on the radio. The fact that things were comfortable with Sam was both reassuring and disconcerting. Part of him wanted to make Sam work a bit before finding a comfortable groove. The rest of him knew that it wasn't possible to grow up like they had and not find that groove immediately.

It didn't mean that the hurt wasn't still there. It didn't mean that Dean accepted Sam's choices. It didn't mean that Sam understood what drove Dean. But they were family. And no matter what happened outside of that, they were kind of family that would always reach out a hand to stop each other from walking blindly into traffic.

Dean just hoped that one day he'd be able to trust Sam again.

"Dude, grab me a cassette."

"You and your damn cassettes."

"You've been out of the game awhile, so maybe I should remind you about the rules," Dean teased. "Driver picks the music—"

"Dean, is this…blood?"

Dean closed his mouth and looked over to see Sam holding two cassette cases with smears of dried blood on them.

"Uh, yeah," he answered, looking away, his mouth pressing into a grim line. He could feel Sam's eyes on him.

"Yours?"

Dean shook his head. "Not that blood." He remembered Noah slouched, nearly unconscious from blood loss, blowing cigarette smoke out through the opened window.

"But…there was _other_ blood that was yours?"

"Hey, you were the only one who stopped hunting, Sam."

Sam sat back, quiet for a moment. "Is it Cas'?"

"No," Dean replied, not elaborating.

"Dean—"

"Put a tape in, Sam." Dean cut him off.

He was suddenly not ready to talk about what had happened to him while they were apart. Not the vampires, not Ali, not Noah; that would come soon enough. He heard Sam sigh with mild frustration; after a moment "Ride the Lightning" filled the empty spaces between them.

"Where are we going?" Sam asked.

"Bobby's."

"He got a job? Lead on where the Colt is?"

Dean tightened his grip on the steering wheel, looking out through the side window. "Not exactly."

Sam went quiet again. Dean felt the muscles of familiarity and family begin to grow stiff again. He'd expected too much, too soon. Neither of them was ready for the details.

"You know something," Sam said after awhile, his voice so quiet, Dean was tempted to turn down the music to hear him better. "I don't think either of us will ever really be able to _stop_ _hunting_."

Dean glanced over at him. "You get a job in that bar of yours?"

"The freaking world is ending, Dean," Sam snapped, rubbing at the dried blood on the cassette. "It was on the news, in the papers…everywhere."

Dean stayed quiet. The end of the world hadn't stopped _nosferatu_ from using a small college campus as a smorgasbord. Evil is as evil does, he supposed.

"I, uh…," Sam exhaled a soft, humorless laugh. "I alerted Bobby to some…events. Knew it was demons. He sent some hunters."

Dean shot a look in Sam's direction. Something in Sam's voice….

"I don't know how, but…," Sam licked his bottom lip nervously, "they found out what I'd done."

"What do you mean, what you'd done?"

Sam lifted sorrow-filled eyes to meet Dean's quick glance. "That I started the apocalypse."

"No," Dean shook his head once, decisively. "_You_ didn't start it, Sam. _I_ did."

"You didn't kill Lilith," Sam argued. "You didn't turn Lucifer loose."

"I broke the first damn seal, man," Dean pointed at his chest. "This is _not_ on you."

"Yeah, well. That's not the word on the street," Sam informed him. He glanced quickly at Dean. "I didn't kill them, if that's what you're wondering."

Dean felt an arrow of shock slide through him – partly because Sam nailed a concern he'd not been ready to voice. "I know that."

Sam looked out through the front window. "There was this girl working at the bar," he said softly. "She told me…she said that no one has ever done anything so bad they can't be forgiven." Years falling from his face, his eyes, his voice, Sam turned to Dean once more. "You think that's true?"

Dean rolled his lips against his teeth, weighing his words. He thought of Noah standing in the abandoned house, looking down at him and saying _you made a deal to save your brother…I vowed to kill mine_.

"I hope so, Sammy," he said quietly.

They drove on, the light outside turning the prairie that stretched out on either side of the highway to a tin-like yellow. Sam quietly exchanged tapes when one ran out. They stopped for gas and food, speaking only about the essentials – _get me a soda, where's the next exit, hand me a napkin_ – and not touching on the sensitive subject of what happened when they were apart. Dean didn't ask Sam about the hunters he'd encountered; Sam didn't ask Dean about the blood on the cassettes.

They just drove, letting the road decide if their bond would be mended or if time and circumstance had done too much.

www

**Sioux Falls, South Dakota, that night**

The edge of twilight had nearly given way to night when they pulled into the junkyard behind Bobby's place. Dean had checked the date on a newspaper at the last gas station and reassured himself that it was still roughly a week before the next full moon. If Noah was still here, at least he'd be here in human form.

"Y'know, sometimes I really miss Rumsfeld," Sam commented suddenly.

Dean leaned forward, peering around the seemingly abandoned lot before turning off the engine. "You hated that dog," he commented.

"Nah," Sam shook his head, also checking their perimeter, "he just liked you better."

Dean glanced at his brother, surprised. "Yeah?"

"Guess he recognized a kindred spirit," Sam said, a small grin tugging at his mouth.

"Bitch," Dean remarked good-naturedly.

"Jerk," Sam amiably replied, then opened his door.

As they approached Bobby's back door, Dean cleared his throat. "Listen, Sam," he started. "There's something I should probably—"

"Took your damn time getting here." Bobby's grizzled voice cut through Dean's confession. "You take the scenic route?"

Dean stepped up to the door where Bobby sat in his wheel chair, a sawed-off shotgun across his lap. The light from the study tossed shadows across the hallway behind Bobby, his ever-present trucker hat revealing nothing but his bearded chin. Dean smiled. Returning to Bobby's always felt a little like coming home, no matter the reason.

"Bobby, you wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Bobby tipped his chin up. "Picked up a straggler, did ya?"

"Hey, Bobby," Sam said from behind Dean, his voice almost shy.

Dean swallowed. "He still here?"

"He is. He's out there wandering somewhere," Bobby muttered, indicating the junkyard behind Dean with a tip of his chin. "He does that once in awhile. Gets restless, I guess. Don't think he's used to staying in one place so long."

"He? He who?" Sam asked.

Dean ignored Sam for the moment, waiting for Bobby to back his wheelchair into the hall before following the older hunter inside.

"Liked to give me a heart attack, his showing up like he did," Bobby said over his shoulder. "Thought he was a zombie. Especially with the way he was all torn up."

"Glad you didn't try to stake him," Dean commented dryly.

"Tried everything else," Bobby said, turning his chair next his old desk and looking back at the brothers.

Dean stood in the center of the room, resting his weight on one leg. Sam moved to sit on the couch beneath the big picture window.

"Only thing he reacted to was silver, but by that time, I figured he wasn't here to kill me."

Dean rubbed at his bottom lip. Thinking.

"You're looking good, Sam," Bobby said. "Retirement suits you."

"I'm coming out of retirement," Sam commented.

Bobby glanced at Dean. "You responsible for this Lance Armstrong maneuver?"

Dean shook his head. "Tell him, Sam."

"Uh, so…," he cleared his throat. "I'm, uh, Lucifer's vessel."

Bobby sat quietly and started at Sam for almost a full minute. "Well, ain't that just a kick in the balls."

"Pretty much," Dean muttered. "Listen, Bobby, there's more."

"There usually is."

"Wait," Sam held up a hand, standing and moving toward Bobby's desk. "Who is the guy wandering around Bobby's junkyard?"

"Uh, that'd be me," came a rough voice from the hallway.

Dean turned on his heel, eyes seeking out the source of the voice. Noah stepped forward from the shadows, his face a bit thinner, slightly pale, a two-day old scruff framing his jaw, but alive. The side of his mouth turned up in a small grin at Dean.

"So much for being right behind me," Dean growled, but felt himself smiling in return.

"I was behind you," Noah defended himself. "Just…a lot further behind than I realized."

Dean dropped his hands at his sides, turning his palms out almost beseechingly. "I thought you were dead, man."

"I know," Noah replied softly.

"I thought…I thought you'd burned up with—"

"I didn't," Noah broke in, taking pity on Dean's suddenly fragile voice. "You look a helluva lot better than I thought you would. Your neck doesn't even look—"

"Yeah, well…I know this angel."

Noah narrowed his eyes. "This the same angel who hauled you out of hell?"

"Same guy."

"That's handy."

"You look a lot worse than I thought _you_ would," Dean returned. "What happened to those magical healing powers of yours?"

Noah lifted a shoulder. "The silver," he told Dean. "In the bomb. I breathed it in and…it's kinda taken my body a bit longer to rebuild than usual."

"Wait, _bomb_?" Sam spoke up. "Someone want to tell me what the hell is going on here?"

Dean watched Noah's eyes flick from him to Sam and back. "Is that…?"

Dean nodded. "My brother, Sam."

"Hey," Sam greeted, nodding once.

"Hey, Sam," Noah said, then tilted his head slightly. "My name's Noah. And I'm a werewolf."

Sam's exhale was equivalent to someone landing a fist in his gut. Dean winced, then looked at Noah.

"You were right. Not the best approach."

Noah nodded. "Told you my way was better."

"Oh, right," Dean scoffed. "Much better to see you rip a vampire's heart out—"

"Hold up. Wait." Sam stepped forward, hands out. "_Werewolf_?"

"It's a long story," Dean told him.

"Well, until we figure out how to kill the Devil," Sam snapped at him, "I think we've got time."

Dean rubbed his face. "I need a drink."

"I'm on it," Bobby spoke up. He pulled a new bottle of Jack Daniels from his lower desk drawer. "When your old 'Nam buddy shows up after thirty years and hasn't aged a day, you stock up."

Dean went to the kitchen and grabbed four glasses. When he returned he saw that no one had moved, but that Sam's steely-eyed gaze had practically pinned Noah to an invisible display board.

"Sam," he said quietly. "Stand down. It's okay."

"_Okay_?" Sam whirled to face him. "He's a goddamn _werewolf_, Dean. And not only have you not put him down…you're…you're _friends_ with him?"

"Sam, it's not like that—"

"Dad would've put a bullet in this guy on principal!" Still looking at Dean, Sam gestured to Noah with the flat of his hand.

"I'm not Dad," Dean shot back, an edge crystallizing on his voice. "This is different. It's not like with Madison."

"Don't," Sam snapped, pointing at him. "Don't you bring her up."

"Why?" Dean challenged. "Isn't that why you're pissed? Because of what this job made you do? Made you give up?"

Sam closed his mouth, eyes hot. Dean was aware that Noah hadn't moved. He held perfectly still, eyes on Sam, taking in the whole scene.

"We have sacrificed _so much_ because of this job, Sammy," Dean continued, his body weary. He leaned a hip on Bobby's desk. "We've lost so much. Maybe it's just time we got something back."

Sam turned to Bobby. "Why didn't _you_ kill him?"

Bobby shrugged. "Because he saved Dean's life."

"How'd you know that?"

"He told me."

Sam's eyebrows went up. "And you just…believed him?"

Bobby's voice leveled, offering no room for argument. "Yeah, son. I did."

"Sam, listen," Dean stepped forward. "It's a shock, I know."

"You should've told me." Sam stared at him, chin trembling.

"You're right. I'm sorry. But I…, dammit, Sammy, so much has happened since you walked away that I…," he paused again, setting the glasses down and running a hand over the top of his head. "I wanted you to suffer for a bit, I guess. You _left_, man. And I did the best I could."

"It's not like I went to Disneyworld, Dean," Sam muttered. "I had my own shit to deal with, y'know."

Dean nodded. "I know. And you're right. I should have told you before. But I'm telling you now."

The room was quiet a moment. Dean heard his own heartbeat, heard Sam breathing, felt Noah and Bobby's eyes on them.

Sam looked at Noah, who offered him a small smile. "You saved my brother's life?"

"In all fairness," Noah said. "He returned the favor."

Sam's eyes raked Noah, then shifted to Dean. "You gonna pour that stuff or what?"

Once glasses had been handed out, Dean and Noah began talking. Noah elaborated on what he had been when he and Bobby met in 'Nam; Dean could see by Bobby's easy eyes that he was well ahead of them in that respect.

"Explains how you managed to get out of that vampire hut," Bobby commented.

Dean shot a look in Noah's direction. Noah waved him off. "Not the time."

As they delved into what had happened with the _nosferatu_, Dean continued to refill his glass, letting Noah do most of the talking. He filled in the parts he needed to, but living through it the first time had been hard enough. The only way he'd been able to stave off the nightmares, really, had been to force himself to not remember.

_Don't think about it and it can't hurt you._

Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees, listening intently as he stared at Dean with large eyes. He looked sick, hurt, shocked by what Dean had survived, but he didn't say a word. As Noah talked, Dean watched his brother, remembering the same little-boy-lost expression ghosting Sam's features when he'd confessed to remembering Hell. In those moments, Dean felt something shift between them, course-correcting their partnership.

"I had been hunting that nest for so long," Noah said in a quiet, broken voice, "that when I found them…when I found _Luke_…I didn't really know how to let it go, let it be over."

"How'd you get out of there, man?" Dean asked. "I lay outside that ring of fire until the next morning. I never saw you."

"I didn't see you either," Noah replied. "The floor collapsed and I…I couldn't…I think I passed out. One minute I was yelling at you to go and the next…I was in Hell." He glanced apologetically at Dean. "Or, what felt like Hell. It was just…fire and screaming and every time I took a breath the pain just…." He shook his head. "I forgot that I was breathing in silver."

The room was quiet. Dean poured himself another drink, swallowed it fast, then refilled his glass. He'd lost count of how many this made, but he didn't care. He wasn't alone right now with no one to watch his back. He wanted to be comfortably numb, able to let the memories slide off an alcohol-saturated mind.

"I almost didn't…I almost stayed. I mean, I was done, y'know. It was over. I didn't so much care what happened to me. And you were out. Safe." Noah pulled his lips against his teeth in a grimace. "But I was burning."

Dean grit his teeth, pulling in a breath across parted lips. He didn't want to know anymore. He didn't want to hear. And yet…he had to.

"It's weird, y'know," Noah continued, his voice taking on a ragged tone. One that all three men listening reacted to by instinctively closing off. Dean wrapped an arm around his chest, leaning heavily on the edge of the desk. Bobby gripped the wheels of his chair. Sam crossed his arms, his back to a wall.

"I've survived plenty of things over the last eighty years. Got gut-shot in 'Nam," Noah glanced at Bobby, who nodded, face gray with memories. "_That_ was pretty awful. Been stabbed, staked, poisoned by silver…. But never burned. I never thought about fire not being able to kill me. _God_, I wanted to die."

He held his glass out for more whiskey and Dean obliged.

"Something made me…," he shook his head. "I couldn't just…."

His voice faded and he stared at the floor in such a way Dean shuddered to think of what he was seeing. There was something there, something Noah wasn't saying. _Couldn't _say. Sometimes a man's reason to survive isn't something that can be easily categorized.

"Sorry," Noah said, clearing his throat. "I don't know what…. Words just don't…y'know, cover it."

Dean pulled his brows close, swirling whiskey at the bottom of his glass. He got it. By the silence wrapping around Bobby and Sam, he guessed they got it, too. Words rarely did what he wanted them to, anyway. Sam was so good at it, but Dean couldn't always find the right ones to translate his emotions so that others felt what he needed them to feel in order to _understand_. Words were just words. Tools. And sometimes they were a shotgun blast when a knife worked better.

Noah took a breath and lifted his eyes, finding Dean's already settled on him. Dean nodded. _I get it, man. You just go on and you don't even know why until you're halfway down the road._

"Anyway, there was this shallow creek not far from the mill," Noah said, his voice cutting through the quiet. "I hadn't seen it before – it was on the opposite side from the house. I literally fell into it. And just…laid there. No idea how long."

"Your body started healing," Dean stated.

Noah looked down at the glass, turning it in the palm of his hand in a repetitive, nervous manner. "Yeah, mostly. The burns started to heal first. My arm was wasted, though. I wasn't really thinking clearly, y'know? I should have made my way to the house first, but…."

"How'd you get _here_," Sam asked, his voice soft, finally sounding like the person Dean knew his brother to be when people were in pain.

"There was still some stuff in my room," he said. "When I got back. Enough stuff that I could change clothes, since the ones I had on were pretty much gone. I still had all the files from the M.E.," he looked up at Dean, "and that's when I remembered you talking about this hunting guru friend of yours. The only name I could ever really remember from 'Nam. From any time after the curse, really."

"Gee, I feel so special," Bobby groused.

"I called information, found out where he lived."

"Wait, how did you know which one was _our_ Bobby?" Sam asked.

"The journal said South Dakota," Noah offered.

Sam shot a look at Dean. "You showed him Dad's journal?"

"No," Dean muttered, pouring another drink. "He broke in to my room. The bastard."

"Anyway, I was used to jumping trains, so I hopped a freight train west, bailed when I got near Sioux Falls, and just…hoped he didn't shoot me on sight."

Dean glanced at Bobby. "Thanks, man."

"Don't go getting all mushy on me, cupcake," Bobby grumbled. "Still not so sure I like the idea of a werewolf running amuck in the world."

"A werewolf that kills vampires," Dean pointed out.

"When he was hunting that nest," Sam countered, looking at Noah. "Now that you're all filled up from revenge, what happens next?"

Dean leveled his eyes at Sam's slightly caustic tone, watching his brother glance quickly his way, then back at Noah. He knew what Sam was thinking: that his wanting redemption was not the same thing. But Dean found it hard to draw a clean line between redemption and revenge.

Noah swallowed, his eyes moving from one hunter to the next, appearing to weigh his answer carefully. "Seems there's a bit of a ruckus going on out there right now," he said finally. "Something about the apocalypse?"

Dean exchanged a look with his brother.

"Someone told me demons don't like losing," Noah continued.

"You got that right," Bobby muttered, narrowing his eyes at Noah.

"Well," Noah rolled his shoulders, then tossed the rest of his drink to the back of his throat, baring his teeth as he swallowed the burn. "Figure you could use another soldier. Especially one who's pretty damn hard to kill."

"How do we know you won't go rogue?" Sam countered.

"I told you, kid," Noah looked at Sam, his face emptying of expression, his tone stating clearly that he'd been patient to this point because of who Sam was, but he was wearing thin, "I control the hunger."

"_Now_," Sam pushed. "Who knows what could happen down the road?"

Noah tilted his head, taking a step forward. Dean watched Sam's shoulders square up, but he didn't make a move to step in. Instead, he swallowed another shot of whiskey. He knew Sam was speaking from a personal fear, and his concerns were legitimate, but his brother was a grown man. If he wanted to challenge Noah's claims, he would have to handle Noah's response.

"You think that after fifty years of channeling a strength and power that could wipe out the three of you inside of a minute into _one night_ of destruction dedicated to a single species of evil I'm going to just say fuck it and start sampling the goods? That it?"

"Well, I—" Sam faltered as Noah took another step forward.

"Kid, if I wanted to kill humans, I would have done it a long time ago." It came out in a low growl. Dean saw Noah's hands flex at his sides, his left one shaking a bit. "I would have done it in Cambodia when I saw the desecration of entire villages. I would have done it in South Central LA when I saw gangs and drugs annihilate kids before they knew what hit them. I would have done it when countless _idiots_ got between me and the fucking _evil_ I was trying to save their asses from. You think I'm going to throw all of that away now just 'cause the mission's changed?"

Sam shot a nervous look to Dean, who shrugged and lifted his glass in salute.

"I suppose not," Sam finally replied.

"No," Noah agreed. "No, I'm not."

"Want to back off him a bit, now, tiger?" Bobby quiet suggestion came out like an order. "Pretty sure you made your point."

Noah looked down as if just realizing that he'd basically backed Sam against the desk.

"Sorry, kid," he said, patting Sam's shoulder, then moving back across the room.

"'S okay," Sam replied, sagging against the desk a bit.

Noah looked over at Dean. "You got my picture?"

Dean nodded, his body starting to go numb from the alcohol. "In the Impala. C'mon."

Without a word to Bobby or Sam, he headed outside, his stride not quite steady, the bottle of Jack Daniels still clutched in his hand by the neck. Noah followed him. The night was cold; their breath puffed out before them in tiny clouds of condensation. Dean squinted up at the high, bright moon crowding out the lesser stars and turning the sky around it a luminescent gray. In a week it would be full.

And Noah would turn into the monster Dean had seen tear apart vampires. And Dean wouldn't be there to make sure that's all he tore into.

He basically had to trust the man…or kill him.

They reached the trunk of the Impala and Dean opened it, digging into his duffel bag to retrieve Noah's wallet and notebook. He had to lean on the bumper of the car as he turned; the world had started a slow, languid spin.

Noah's smile was genuine when took the wallet from Dean. "I missed her," he said, sliding Maggie's picture out of its pocket.

"I know," Dean said quietly.

"You look beat, kid," Noah commented, putting the picture away, and tucking his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans.

"I am," Dean confessed, the liquor turning him a bit maudlin. "It's not like it was before…having Sam back."

"Don't imagine it would be," Noah said. "You've both been through a lot."

"Yeah, but," Dean sighed, taking a pull on the bottle. "We've _always_ been through a lot. All our lives, y'know? From Mom dying to Dad hunting…I mean, it was just Sammy and me. And then Dad got killed by that damn yellow-eyed bastard. And Sam died. And I died. And Sam started to use the Force and had to go cold turkey from the demon…from the demon blood…."

Noah took the bottle from Dean's hand. "Jesus, kid. This is practically empty."

Dean felt a sloppy grin waver at the corners of his mouth. It had been a long time since he'd allowed himself to be drunk. "It's been a helluva week. I mean, time travel ain't easy."

Noah gave him a look that Dean couldn't figure out. But he needed Noah to understand that it was more than just the vampires. It was _everything_. All of it. A destiny too big for any human to accept. A guy just wanting to live a normal life. And so much pain.

"See, I didn't say yes," he told Noah. "And Sam did, and the world was shit. It was _shit_."

Noah simply nodded, starting at Dean with sad eyes.

"And I turned into this…this person without a soul. I wasn't me, but I _was_, y'know? And I didn't have Sam with me. I let him go and I shouldn't have." He closed the trunk, and took a stumbling step toward Noah, surprised that the driveway was so uneven in that spot. He pushed his fist against Noah's chest. "I shouldn't have let him go."

"He's back now, Dean," Noah pointed out. "He's with you. Whatever you want to change…you can."

Dean nodded. "I can, right? I mean _we_ can. Sam and me. Do you know how much we've been through? How much we've _done_?"

Noah shook his head, closing his fingers around Dean's fist, gently turning Dean until he sagged against the Impala's trunk. Dean suddenly felt a bit more balanced.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, kid," Noah replied, smiling at the slur of Dean's words.

"You told him you hated him."

Noah frowned. "What now?"

"In that stairway, you told Luke you _hated_ him. Not hate. Hat_ed_." Dean stared at Noah intently. It was important he know this. He just had to find the right words for the question he was trying to ask.

Noah had started to breathe funny. Dean wondered if the silver was still bothering him. He waited.

"I did hate him."

"But that's not what you _said_," Dean pressed. "You almost didn't do it. But then he said _please_ and…then it was over."

"How the hell do you remember so much damn detail when you're three sheets?"

"I've got a freaky memory. Answer the question."

"What _is_ the question?"

Dean swallowed, trying to pull the double image of Noah into one, working to steady his voice. "Did you forgive him?"

Noah stared at him, incredulous, for nearly a minute, and then Dean saw his eyes begin to well up. "Yeah," he whispered. "Yeah, I think I did."

"Why?"

"Because…," Noah swallowed, giving Dean a weak, watery smile. "He was my brother."

"He killed your wife."

"The vampire did that. Not Luke. I think I realized…somewhere in there…in all that talk when you were fighting the fever…I think I realized that Luke's big sin was basically…not waiting for me to come home from the war."

"But you still killed him."

"Yeah." Noah nodded. "Yeah, I did. I couldn't let the vampire in him live anymore. Cause anymore pain."

Dean stared at tip of his boot, dusty and scuffed in the light of the moon. It dawned on him that his fist was still resting against Noah's chest and that his body had started to sway sideways.

"Sammy wants to know if he can be forgiven."

Noah nodded carefully. "Do you _want_ to forgive him?"

Dean dragged his eyes up. They were so damn heavy. "I never blamed him. I mean…he hurt me. And I'm mad. But…I'll get over that."

"Did you tell him?"

"Nah," Dean shook his head. "I can't tell him that shit."

"What about how you felt when he left you?" Noah raised his voice slightly. "How you thought it was him in that meat locker? How you went through every memory of _every_ pain he'd ever experienced when the fever ate through you?"

Dean looked at Noah, slightly puzzled. He was being incredibly specific. And loud.

"No, man. None of it."

"Well," Noah rotated, managing to get Dean's arm over his own shoulders. "Maybe he already knows."

"Yeah," Dean mumbled. He was so tired. The ground was looking pretty comfy right about now. "He's pretty smart. He figures shit out all the time."

Noah chuckled low in his throat and began to move them back the short distance toward the house. Dean stumbled up the stairs, seeing a shadow lurking at on the porch.

"Hey, Sammy," he greeted blearily.

"Hey, Dean," Sam replied, an odd note in his voice.

Dean was too tired to figure it out. Didn't matter anyway. Sam was back, Noah was alive, Dean was finally freaking drunk enough to forget the feel of mouths on his skin, the sound of nails skittering across stone. They were all safe at Bobby's and for one night, nothing else had to matter.

No angels, no demons, no destiny.

He let Noah maneuver him inside, trying valiantly to make his feet cooperate, but his limbs were completely uncoordinated.

"Couch?" Dean heard Noah ask someone.

The reply was apparently in the affirmative because the next thing Dean knew, he was being eased down onto the couch in Bobby's study, rolling to his side and dropping a hand to the ground to try to keep from falling off the world.

Someone tugged off his boots. Someone else draped a blanket over him. He waited to pass out completely, but oblivion was slow to oblige. Voice spun around him, speaking softly, drifting in and out of meaning.

"Been awhile since I've seen him this far gone."

"He's gonna have a helluva headache in the morning."

"He's had worse."

He could hear Sam and Noah. Idly he wondered where Bobby was.

"You get all of that out there?"

"I got the important parts."

"Your brother's a good man, Sam."

"Huh, yeah. I think he's the only one who doesn't believe that."

"You are, too, y'know."

Dean held still, listening, the buzzing in his body rushing to carrying him away.

"You don't know me."

Sam's reply was so filled with self-loathing that Dean automatically protested. It came out as sort of a low moan. The men speaking around him ignored it.

"I know how he sees you," Noah replied, nudging the couch and sending the world spinning once more. "That's enough."

Whatever Sam said in reply was lost to the alcohol-induced haze of nothingness. Dean fell into the void gladly, seeking a few hours of peace before the world bit into him again.

As it was, even Jack Daniels wasn't strong enough to combat Dean's memories.

www

There was a hand on his chest, heavy, warm, familiar.

Belatedly, he realized he'd been calling out – seeking help, solace, rescue from the torment of their mouths, the knives, a bizarro-world mix of the _nosferatu_ and Hell's rack. He'd been strapped down, sliced into, and then they had started to feed.

"Hey, man."

He wasn't breathing right. Air would go out, but then he couldn't suck it back in.

"Just a dream, Dean."

_Sam_. That was Sam's hand on him, steadying him, grounding him.

"Breathe."

Dean obeyed, finding it easier to do. He wasn't _gone_. He wasn't _there_. He opened his eyes, taking another breath as he tried to quiet the screams still pressing out through his skull. The weight on his chest suddenly made him feel trapped and he pushed Sam's hand away, struggling upright, his head pounding, stomach churning.

"Get off me." He was sweating and shaking, and his mouth tasted foul.

"All right, hey, backing off."

Dean shot his eyes around the room. The gray of early morning filled the room, hazy yellow rays beaming at him through the picture window. He took stock of what his eyes landed on, all images yelling _safety_.

"Bobby's, remember?"

They were at Bobby's. Sam was with him.

And he had the mother of all hangovers.

"Yeah, I got it," he snapped, angry with himself for thinking that he could drown the memories. All he ever ended up with was a wicked headache and the inability to eat red meat for a day afterwards.

"Fine," Sam grumbled, irritated.

He felt Sam start to pull away and reached out instinctively, grabbing his brother's wrist. "Hey, wait."

Sam paused, dropping back down on the folding chair where he'd been sitting.

"Sorry."

Sam shrugged. "'S okay. You're never really fun to be around the next morning."

"You sleep?" Dean asked, gingerly rotating until his feet were on the floor.

He rubbed his face and then balanced his head in the palm of his hand, his elbow on his knee. If he wasn't very, very careful, he was pretty sure his head would simply detach from his shoulders and roll across the room.

"Yeah. It's early. Don't think Bobby's up. Not sure where Noah is."

Dean swallowed thickly.

"Here," Sam said, handing him three ibuprofen and a bottle of water.

"Oh, you saint," Dean groaned, taking both gratefully. He drank slowly, not relishing the journey to the bathroom if anything decided to make a reappearance. "How'd you know to come in here?"

Sam gave him a sad half-smile. "I could hear you."

Dean grimaced.

"It's okay. Don't think anyone else did. Besides, if anyone knows about nasty dreams…."

Dean smiled weakly. "You're a good brother, Sammy."

"So are you, Dean," Sam replied sincerely.

Dean looked away, not quite up to his brother's level of familial angst. "Noah out wandering around or something?"

Sam shrugged. "He brought you in here last night, then headed back out. Didn't have anything with him, so I assume he's still around. I just went up to…well, I was going to say our old room." He chuckled.

"Need to get my ass in gear," Dean muttered, rubbing the top of his head.

"You're gonna let him go, aren't you?" Sam asked suddenly, without malice.

Dean squinted up at his brother. "Don't think I really have a choice."

"What if he kills someone – someone not a demon, or a vampire, or, y'know…evil. I mean, he's a _werewolf_, Dean."

Dean hung his head, rubbing the back of his neck. "What if _we_ do?"

"What?"

Looking back at Sam, he said. "What makes you and me any different, man? When we're in it…who's to say there won't be…collateral damage? Not to mention, we've both been dead and come back. I've done time on the demon side of Hell." He cushioned his head in his palm once more. "To some hunters, we're no different than Noah."

Sam looked down at his hands, hanging loosely between his legs. "Yeah, I guess you're right. And…it's not like he wasn't doing it for fifty years before he met you."

"Exactly."

"Just…feels weird, I guess."

"Weird like letting Lenore live?" Dean countered.

Sam shrugged. "That's different. She wasn't killing anyone."

"So she said," Dean pointed out, finishing the water bottle. "Damn, I need coffee." He pushed to his feet, swaying a moment and steadying himself on the edge of the couch before shuffling toward the kitchen. "When it comes down to it, Sam…all any of us got is our word, y'know?"

When Sam didn't reply, Dean pivoted slowly to regard his brother.

"Sam?"

Sam looked up, shifting uncomfortably to be caught in his own thoughts. "Yeah."

"You okay, man?"

"Yeah," he smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Just…y'know. Lot to take in."

"No doubt," Dean turned back to where Bobby kept the coffee percolator on the kitchen counter.

He knew there was even more he had to lay on Sam – the reality of what he'd seen in the future was something that could be avoided, if they worked together – but that was going to have to wait until coffee. Everything would have to wait until coffee. He leaned against the counter, holding his aching head in his hands, as he waited for the coffee to bring him back to life.

"That coffee I smell?"

"God, Bobby, not so friggin' loud," Dean groaned.

"You owe me a bottle of Jack, kid," Bobby returned, wheeling his way to the table. Dean just shot him a look. "You two figure out what you're gonna do next, now that Sam's back?"

Dean frowned. "Haven't got that far yet."

"Well, if you want to say good bye to your friend, drink your coffee fast, 'cause it looks like he's ready to go."

Dean's frown intensified as he straightened up, peering through the window. Noah stood on the front porch, a back pack over one shoulder, hoodie tied around his waist, his short-sleeved T-shirt exposing still-healing marks on his left arm. He was looking down the road as if trying to determine which direction he should start.

"Sam," Dean called. "Where'r my boots?"

He heard them hit the floor near his feet and fought back the nausea as he bent down to pull the on. Sam was on his heels as he headed out to the porch, the screen door banging shut behind them. The sun was high enough in the sky to have burned off the morning fog and the air smelled clean, fresh. It was just warm enough that Dean felt the nightmare sweat that had dampened his T-shirt begin to dry.

"Hey," Dean greeted.

Noah rotated and smiled at them. "Winchesters," he replied.

"You leaving?"

Noah nodded. "Bobby gave me this pack last night," he said, shrugging the shoulder with the backpack. "I got enough clothes and supplies to last me awhile. Figured I'd taken up enough of his time." His eyes shifted to the doorway and Dean knew Bobby was sitting there, watching. "Only so many war stories you can share, right?"

"You know where you're headed?" Dean asked.

"Not really," Noah said. "Been on the trail of that one nest so long…not sure what else is out there, to be honest. Thought maybe I'd head back down to New Orleans. Stock up on more of that voodoo powder."

Dean pressed his lips together, nodding slowly. He knew Noah had really only been waiting for him to show up; it wasn't as if he'd been planning on staying.

"How about you two?"

Dean glanced over at Sam, not surprised to find his brother watching him. Meeting Sam's eyes he searched an answer, a balance that had always been there before Hell and demons and angels and destiny sought to destroy it. He saw the same questions in Sam's eyes and felt himself smile.

"Still working that part out," he replied. He let his gaze take in Bobby, watching them from the doorway. "All I know is we're not going down without a fight."

Sam nodded.

Noah cleared his throat, turning to face the younger hunter. "Sam. I'm glad I met you."

Sam's smile was surprised and Dean smirked watching his brother struggle to find something both polite and sincere to say in response.

"It's been…educational," Sam replied.

Noah glanced through the screen door. "Corporal," he nodded at Bobby. Dean saw Bobby toss Noah a salute.

And then he looked at Dean.

"I feel like this is the end of _Wizard of Oz_ or something," Dean grumbled, finding the emotion that tightened his throat warring with his raging headache. "You gonna miss me most of all?"

Noah grinned and Dean saw that it lit up his face – the weight, the worry, the guilt of his mission to find and eliminate the _nosferatu_ nest was gone. In its place, Dean saw the person Noah had been before the curse.

"Good luck, Dean," Noah said, holding out a hand for Dean to shake. "I hope when this is all over, we run into each other again."

Dean shook Noah's hand and then exhaled in surprise when Noah gave his hand a sharp tug and pulled him in for a one-armed hug. He slapped Noah on the back and said into the man's shoulder, "Next time, no vamps."

Noah released him and nodded. "Deal." He headed down the stairs and turned west. Just before he walked away, he turned.

"Hey," he called, drawing both Dean's and Sam's eyes. "Nothing trumps family. The one you're born with or the one you choose. When it comes down to it…_nobody_ can take that from you."

Dean smiled slightly, raising his hand. "See ya, man."

His aching head was spinning on the axis of Noah's words. Noah waved back, then turned on his heel, walking with that coiled grace Dean had admired.

"You think we _will_ see him again?" Sam asked.

Dean lifted a shoulder. "Dunno. Hope so." He glanced at Sam. "Don't really have a lot of friends, you know?" Looking back at Noah's retreating figure, he mused, "Would be nice to hang on to at least one."

As he watched Noah walk down the side of the road, he felt Sam shift his weight next to him, staying close. It wasn't going to be the same, Dean realized, but maybe it wasn't supposed to be. They'd been through too much to go back to the way things were. They needed a new normal. One that was big enough to take on every nightmare, every scar, every celestial battle.

And something inside of Dean had shifted since meeting Noah…a scarring over of a wound that had been so raw it had been bleeding out for months. The fact that Noah was walking away from them - and not in a grave with a silver bullet through his heart - gave Dean a kernel of faith that the world wasn't all tunnel. There was light.

"Hey, Sam?"

There was the possibility that redemption – if not revenge – could win.

"Yeah?"

There was the possibility that this struggle – this perpetual, uphill battle – would end.

"Y'know your friend? The one who said anyone could be forgiven?"

Sam shuffled his feet on the wooden boards of the porch. "Yeah."

Dean turned to look at his brother, eyes serious. "I think she was right."

Sam's grateful smile told him that it might take a while, and they may have to course-correct a few more times, but they were going to get there.

"You two are breaking my heart," Bobby grumbled from the doorway. "Can we please get that coffee now?"

"Oh, hell, yeah," Dean grinned, clapping his brother on the shoulder and following him inside.

They had a future to change.

* * *

**a/n:** Thank you so much for reading. Apologies for the delay in replying to your reviews! I will respond to each – just wanted to get the story finished and posted before the premiere on the 3rd. *smile*

I have truly enjoyed writing this story; the character of Noah will live beyond fanfiction in an original story of his own called "Kill Creek Road." Come back around (in a year or so) when I've finished it and see if you remember him.

Also, next up is "From Yesterday," a multi-chapter AU of _Swan Song_ which will also return the character Brenna Kavanagh to the boys. What if the amulet wasn't just a failed God-beacon? What if Sam never went to the Cage? And what if two hunters were left on their own to pick up the pieces, try to heal, and live in a world where it seems even the demons had gone quiet? Though the angels take away the upper hand, evil still finds a way and Sam and Dean Winchester are pitted against a powerful force – with no back up, no resources, and only their faith in each other to keep them alive.


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